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LIOTYPE PRINTING CO., BOSTON, MASS. 



POEMS 



FLORUS B. PLIMPTON 



ILLUSTRATED. 




CINCINNATI: 

MRS. F. B. PLIMPTON. 
1886. 







COI'-iRIGHT 

MRS. F. B. PLIMPTON 

1886 



PRESS OK 

McDonald & Eicj: 
cincinnati 



(To our Cousin 

flDre, (Beorcje S. Iborncr 

iTRutualls be[ove& b^ tbe Butbor of tbcse 
Ipoems, and bs 

C. B. p. 



1 have found a resource and comfort in the preparation 
of my husband's poems for collection and publication. They 
were mainly written in his early youth, and I read in them 
of his joys and sorrows, and of his faith, when the days of 
weariness came, in the higiier life wiiere all is light. This 
will be a very precious book if others can see it with my 
eyes. Whatever is not worthy belongs to th.e fond temerity 
of the gleaner. 

C. A. PLIMPTON. 



HE WHO HATH TOLD HIS MORTAL DAYS 
AND PASSED BEYOND THE VOICR OF PRAISE, 
FROM song's full SERVICE WAS DEBARRED. 
HE TOILSOME DAYS AND NIGHTS DID GUARD, 
TO WHICH THE RECORDS IN THESE LEAVES 
WERE WELCOME PERIODS AND REI'KIEVES. 
VET NONE THE LESS, IN HOUR OF NEED, 
WITH GENEROl'S FAUrH HE BADE THEM SPEED, 
WHO, HALl" LN FEAR AND HOPEFUL HALF, 
PIERIAN WATERS SOUGHT TO (JUAFF. 



EUITll M. I HOMAS. 




'1^ 



MEMOIR. 

LORUS BEARDSLEY PLIMPTON was bora September 4, 1830, 
in Palmyra, Portage Co., Ohio. His father, Billings O. Plimpton, 
who reached the age of ninety, and who died the day after the 
death of his son Florus, removed from Connecticut in the early 
part of the century, and connected himself with the Pittsburg 
I Conference of the Methodist Episcopal Church, retaining an itinerant 
Vv connection with it until the Erie Conference was erected, when he 
was set off with that branch of the itinerant work. He was one of 
the few, if not the last of the original members of that body. Shortly 
after entering upon his ministerial labors in Northern Ohio, he married Miss 
Eliza Merwin, youngest daughter of one of the early settlers of the Reserve. 

Florus was the third son of this union. He received a common school and 
academic education, remaining on his father's farm in Hartford, Trumbull 
County, O., till seventeen years of age, when he entered Allegheny College, 
Meadville, Pa. In the spring of 1S51 he connected himself with James Dumars in 
the publication of the Western Reserve Transcript at Warren, Trumbull County. 

In the summer of 1852 he accepted an invitation to edit a Whig campaign paper 
at Niles, Mich. At the close of that political struggle he returned to Ohio, and was 
associated with John S. Herrick in conducting the Portage Whig, published at 
Ravenna. During his residence in this town he married Miss Cordelia A. Bushnell, 
of Hartford, Trumbull County, June 2, 1S53. In the following spring he moved to 
Elmira, N. Y., where he was engaged until the spring of 1857 in the publication of 
the Elmira Daily Republican, and a weekly campaign paper in 1856. In 1857 he 
accepted a position in the city department of the Pittsburg Daily Dispatch, soon be- 
coming one of its associate editors. In i860 he became one of the staff of the 
Cincinnati Daily Commercial, and his labors with it and with the Commercial 
Gazette continued without interruption for a quarter of a century, and were of an 
unusually important character, breadth and responsibility. Late in 1885 he was pros- 
trated by his first serious illness. He passed to rest April 23, 18S6, deeply mourned 
by many loving friends, residing in almost every part of the Union. In accordance 
with his request, made a long period before his decease, his remains were cremated. 




INTRODUCTION 
Bv MURAT HALSTEAD. 



[EVERAIy times, during the quarter of a century in which we were 
associated in business and knew each other with intimac}-, and 
shared in making up the estimates of current events that called 
for the mutual vtnderstanding of opinions and S3'mpathies, Mr. 
Plimpton and myself were separated for weeks and months, 
sometimes with the Atlantic ocean between us, but we were never 
both long away from Cincinnati, and I find it most difficult to 
realize that he is on the journey to "The undiscovered countr}' 
from whose bourn no traveller returns;" and when I absent myself 
from the office and come back, the old habit of enjoyment of his 
greeting asserts itself with surprising strength ; and the conscious- 
ness that "the rest is silence" between t;s, strikes with a painful jar 
as it suddenly grows clear. We had so many things to think of together, and 
there were themes which I referred to him so constaiitl}', that the custom of 
doing so seemed fixed ; and still, as the endless duties of the occupation in 
which we were so closeh' engaged arise, I involuntarih' appropriate his well 
remembered talents da}^ after day, to perform the old tasks, forgetful for the 
moment that at last, and at least, "the weary are at rest." 

Country bo3'S, born in Ohio, with many kindred experiences and aspira- 
tions, hopes, themes, ambitions and disappointments, in earl}- 3'outh, we 
found ourselves when a little above the age of tliirt}' ^ears, on the same 
newspaper, subject to the limitations of an intelligent and inflexible 
authorit}' — that of the controlling proprietor, M. D. Potter — and with mi- 
bounded opportunities for hard work. It happened that I had been some- 
thing over seven years engaged in the Cincinnati Commercial Office, when 
Mr. Plimpton was introduced. He came to fill the situation that Mr. Potter 
always regarded the one most difficult to suppl}' on the daily press — that 
of the writer of dramatic and musical criticism. How ]\Ir. Plimpton came 
to be recommended in that capacity' to Mr. Potter, I never knew or have 
totally forgotten. i\Iy recollection is distinct that INIr. Plimpton was imniedi- 
ateh' seen to be a quiet man, who did his work well and said ver}- little about 
it. PresentU- there was observed in his paragraphs, a touch at once fine and 



forcible, and after a time, without noise or friction, his work grew in promi- 
nence and his position as a writer and one relied upon for good things 
formed itself Without displacing or conflicting with anj- one he became a 
part of our force, and was at the front — no favors shown, but a favorite. 

Abraham Lincoln was elected President, and the rising storm of Southern 
rebellion darkened the air. The Commercial Ofiice had about three years before 
parted with Henr^- Reed, one of the strongest writers ever on the American 
press, and my own mind, that had been largely instructed in editorial duties 
under his influence, had not fully asserted itself in the expression of final 
opinions, and while I had gone into the Chase campaigns in Ohio, and the 
Fremont national campaign with zeal, I\Ir. Reed had held back and checked 
m}' enthusiasm with his conservative political philosoph}'. When he was 
gone, I found those about me going faster instead of slower in the popular 
current than I was disposed to go. ]\Ir. Potter's general orders were verj' 
simple. The Commercial had to support the cause of free territories — which 
speedil}^ became that of the free States. 

As the discussion of the dutj^ of the General Government in the presence 
of State rebellion progressed, and the various comproniises and expedients 
looking to reconciliation were tested and found wanting — as the border 
State propositions, that those who had elected Lincoln should surrender, 
were found inapplicable, and the view that he should make his submission 
to the slave power, then rampant and threatening, was known to be inadmis- 
sible, and the theory' that there should be a convention of all the States to 
make a permanent adjustment of difficulties, otherwise the peaceful separa- 
tion of the conflicting sections, was seen to be as impossible as inexpedient, 
my associate in editorial labor was A. R. Spofiford, who has long been 
librarian of Congress, and who held the pen of a very read}^ and strong 
writer, and Avliile possessed of a vast fund of information, was wonderfully 
ready and accurate in quoting the teachings of histor3- and the texts of 
literature. 

The fact that INIr. Plimpton had ver^^ clearly defined opinions upon the 
questions of the day gradually became manifest to me, and I was the more 
interested because of the discovery that he was a more radical person than 
myself; that he believed in the application of the most thorough remedies 
for public wrongs and popular delusions. There was novelty in this. I 
had been accustomed to influences that pulled or pushed in the other 
direction. One remembrance is, that L far more than others, believed from 
the first in the terrible earnestness of the Southern people. I was sure the 
South meant war, and the people of the North were exceedingl}' slow to 
reach that state of comprehension. INI}' opportunities had, however, been 
better than those of any other man to know the state of the country, for 
I was the only one who saw the hanging of John Brown, and the exciting 
scenes of the following winter- in Congress, yvhich I studied from the 



galler}', and who attended the Democratic national and sectional conventions 
of iS6o, in Charleston, Richmond and Baltimore. 

The first pronounced opinion from Mr. Plimpton, dissenting from the 
course of the Commercial under my direction, was concerning a series of 
articles that suggested rather than advocated a convention of all the States, 
with the purpose of reaching a solution of sectional difficulties without war, 
even if the final result might be that the Slave States should, like "wayward 
sisters," as General Scott said, some months later, "depart in peace." 

It did not occur to me that such a programme as this would be carried 
out. Of course there were insuperable difficulties. We had only to look 
closel}' into the situation to see that. But it was fashionable to propose ways 
and means for the avoidance of an appeal to arms, and this for a time seemed 
a possible diversion from the direct headlong, awful drift to war. The people 
of the North generally did not believe the South would fight. The vSouthern 
people held the like opinion of the North. I knew both were mistaken, 
and suggested the convention of all the States, and went so far as to sa}' 
that the cotton would be as white and the wheat as golden, after the Slave 
States had set up for themselves, as before. This was not good politics, 
though it may not have been bad poetry, and I refer to it as marking the 
time I ascertained that the new man Plimpton was a well-read politician, 
a Republican in principle and of clear cut and resolutely held convictions. 

INIore than once I have taken pleasure in saying that the mi.stakes in the 
management of the Cincinnati Commercial, while Mr. Plimpton and I were 
so closely associated, were mine, not his, and that errors of polic}' were 
usually, almost uniformly against his protest. He saw earlier and clearer 
and more constantly than I, the greatness of the figures in the war of 
Lincoln and Grant, and, whatever was true of others, had no prejudices to 
indulge against those who were faithful in the service of the imperiled 
countrj'. I must confess that I was always slow to believe in new great 
men ; and they came upon us in flocks in war time. There had to be a 
good deal accomplished besides the playing of Hail to the Chief by brass 
bands, before I could see the evidences that names until then but narrowly 
known, were to be blown across the whole world and into everlasting and 
overwhelming glor}-, by the trump of fame. 

Mr. Plimpton's intuition, delicate as a woman's, was not unfrequently 
superior to my carefully weighed information and close calculation. He was 
in nothing, except his ever present integrit3% more admirable than in his 
sense of humor, and his writings that are most pleasing are those that dis- 
play the charming tints of his jovial fanc}' and the rippling lines of rhj-me 
in which his fun became poetic. And j-et there are but few examples of his 
touching serious subjects with a spirit of levity. There were many things 
in politics and religion that he had no talent for laughing at. He could not 
draw the fine lines ,so as to balance between declarations, and neither affirm 



nor denj', though it wa.? not essential or important to pronounce for either ; 
and he was not comfortable when it was the officially imposed duty to pose 
on the high and sharp fences of independent journalism ; and personal 
journalism never was his pleasure. 

His articles would commit the paper decidedly. The roads he traveled 
were always straight, and he was for or against Tom, Dick or Hany all 
the year round. The strength of conviction and keenness of purpose, that 
were his characteristics in combat, were too intense in him for a long course 
of badinage or a tedious policy of finesse. In public affairs he was nothing 
if not in earnest. In the first campaign of our prodigious and unwieldy 
military operations, Mr. Plimpton won his spurs as a war correspondent. 
He and Major Bickham contributed largel}^ and acceptably to our columns 
from Western Virginia, but after this an misiiccessful attempt to be the 
historian of General Sherman's command in Kentuck}-, Sherman refusing to 
consent to the presence of representatives of the press, the work of the office 
grew in imiwrtance and demanded closer attention and more strenuous labors. 
The press was in a transition state, and the circulation and business generally 
of the ne\vsj)apers increased rapidly, requiring changes in niachiner}' and 
methods, and binding those employed in a round of cares ever enlarging and 
becoming more weighty and exacting. Mr. Plimpton's career as a war cor- 
respondent was closed — with the exception of an epi.sode including his pres- 
ence at the battle of Antietam — by the augmentation of the estimate placed 
upon the excellence of his editorial work ; and when Mr. Spofford took prac- 
tical charge of the library of Congress as first assistant, Mr. Plimpton's place 
became that of associate editor, and he held it "until his strength failed 
him at length." 

We never had quarrels, but we had mauA' differences. It was because 
we were unlike in our mental structure that we harmonized. IM}- seven 
years in the office of the Commercial before he came, and the impression I 
had been able to make upon editorial labors and the acquirement of confi- 
dence and facilit}-, gave me, as INIr. Potter's health, which had long been 
feeble, decisiveU' declined, the first place of responsibility, and as is often the 
case, the Lieutenant did not invarial)ly or even habitually see things along 
the same lines of light the Captain viewed them. Indeed it is often desirable 
that an object shall be obser\-ed from standpoints that make with it acute 
and even obtuse angles. ]\Ir. Plimpton and I seldom were in direct antagonism 
in the consideration of a subject, but we often stood to it in such relations 
that if the right lines had been described there would have been drawn a 
right angled triangle. 

]\Ir. Plimpton was incapable of intrigue or indirection. We always knew 
where he was, and what he meant and stood for. His integrity was so sure 
that there was no hesitation in tru.sting it ; and in the delicate adjustments 
of the relations of the newspaper to individuals, and the complications of 



general and local matters, he was ever tmselfish and faithful, rejecting oppor- 
tunities to celebrate the things that were near to him personally, for the sake 
of preserving the traditions and the steady course of the common policy. 
This is hard to do sometimes, but the ground upon which it can be done is 
cleared, when we regard a great journal not so much an individual expression 
as a public institution and maintain its discipline for the preservation of its 
dignit}'. 

The time of the work of ]\Ir. Plimpton on the Cincinnati Commercial and 
the Commercial Gazette, was just about twenty-five 3'ears. He was well 
trained before he came, in North-eastern Ohio, in Elmira, New York, and in 
Pittsburg. His labors in Cincinnati extended over the most interesting period 
of the history of our countrj^, and were addressed to the enlightenment of our 
constituency on a vast variety of subjects. Volumes of his writings might 
be selected from the files which form for each old established paper a library 
of its own ; and there are veins of gold, that the historians who turn over 
the ample leaves upon which he wrote, will have need to appropriate for the 
fine metal of the coin of truth that is to circulate through the generations 
that will not, and indeed could not, search for themselves into the mass ol 
newspaper literature. 

Upon one subject Mr. Plimpton and ni}%self were never quite serious ; it 
was that of our literar}- productions when we were very young men ; his 
ballads and my novelettes. We were a shade tender about those unconscious 
confessions of our youth. But we were so far from the da5'S in which we first 
saw ourselves in print, as to be able to look as disinterested spectators upon 
our immature selves ; and we respected, I am glad to say, the boys who had 
vSo earl}- and fondly and foolishly fancied, they could do .something for — even 
add to the romantic literature of the ideal West — the West that never was in 
the wilderness, and never will be in this world. I knew well long ago that 
while I should ask the forgiveness of forgetfulness for my crude Indian and 
rural stories, written to learn to write for the press, and out of want of occupa- 
tion, there was something in the poetry of Plimpton that was rare and precious. 
B03' and man, through the changes of forty years he found in poetrj^ the finer, 
higher, truer expression of himself Loving hands have preserved with 
wonderful care that has rewarded itself, the poems that were the flowers of a 
life of labor alwaj-s hard and often barren, and that was full of the inherent 
and impulsive qualities that are the springs of poetr}- — a life whcse chief 
happiness was in the fervent faith that the earth was beavitiful and mankind 
good. 

In the collection that follows is one of those treasures that add to the 
riches that do not perish. No one can be so acutely sensitive to their imper- 
fections as he was, whose heart and mind speak and sparkle in them. He 
valued them lightl}' because he was not a vain man, and they told of himself 
and had an inner radiance for him. He touched the harp because it comforted 



XVI 



him. There were things to saj- that could not otherwise be said ; there were 
tones, rays of light, to trace through melodies unheard b}', and illuminations 
invisible to others — pathwa3's into the infinite space that seemed to promise 
the divine achievement of the human h' unattainable. There are those who 
knew and loved him, certainl}-, and I believe man}- others, to whom these 
imostentatious utterances will be preferred to formal pomp and artificial 
splendor ; and for the audience of the fit, whether many or few, they wall be 
refreshing like a mountain rill or a bough laden with roses, or the flavor of the 
clover fields and tasseling corn, or the bloom ot the locust and apple trees of 
Ohio. There is in them the glitter of those brighter things whose colors never 
fade, and the music that lingers forever of the better things, that are unsearch- 
able save by those whose gift is to put on the wings of poetr}-. 

MURAT HALSTEAD. 
Cincinnati, Sept. lotli, 1886. 




REMARKS OF GEN'L J. D. COX 

At the Obsequies of Mr. F. B. Plimpton, Cincinnati, April 25, 1SS6. 



'have been requested to say a few words in regard to our departed 
friend, and as I reflect upon what I ought to say, I am impressed more 
than one often can be with the way in which the past and the present 
sometimes Hnk themselves together. 

Both Florus Plimpton and myself have been too busy men in our 
different spheres of work to be very often thrown together. P^or many 
years our interviews, though warmly friendly, have necessarily been brief, 
and therefore, when I was asked to say something about him, I naturally 
thought of that time which now seems a long way off, when he and I 
were young men together. 

We began life, I in my profession, he in his, in a little town in the 
northern part of the State, when we were both just beyond our boy- 

hiood, both full of hopes, and both earnest in our own plans for work; 

and yet it so happened that we were thrown for a time quite closely together. 
He was full of that literary spirit which never left him, but which, in his early 
manhood, probably had a stronger hold upon him, and made more of his life and 
character than it could afterward. 

Full of poetic dreams, full of strong purpose, and embodying it in worthy 
literary work, yet he was already committed to that laborious career, as editor of 
a journal, to which his working days and nights had to be devoted. I naturally 
looked back, as I said, to that time, thinking of him as I saw him then, and 
when yesterday I took his son by the hand, it seemed to me as though he had 
grown to manhood almost while we had been thinking, or that it was his father 
as he stood before me thirty years ago that I so well remembered. It is this 
bringing of the past and present together that sometimes comes upon us almost 
with a shock. The gap between has been full of interest to us both. The plans 
we laid out were very far indeed, perhaps, from being those we either of us 
followed, and yet, looking back on that life, I think we can not help saying that, 
in his case, it has been full of wonderful fruit of its own; full of a character that 
was ever ripening; full of maturing growth of that power of intellect and of 
imagination which he showed as a boy. 



He would have been glad could he have made his life essentially and purely 
a literary one, essentially and purely a poetic one. I have no doubt that was 
his earliest longing, but with courage and witli determination he recognized fairly 
the fact that the poetic is only a small part of any man's life ; that there are rare 
chances, few and far between, when a man can wholly follow out the imaginative 
desires of his heart and mind. There was work to do, and to that work he 
addressed himself, whatever leisure moments his arduous task granted being 
devoted to what was beautiful in nature and art. He did not blink the truth 
that in this busy, every-day world the work of the day is really that to which 
every man and woman must give most of their time and most of their strength. 

To that, therefore, he devoted himself with the zeal and power which others 
are more competent to speak of than am I, for of the work of modern journal- 
ism, of those who devote their time and mind to the unending task of editing a 
daily newspaper, we know little. Knowing what I know, seeing what I have 
seen in these kindly touches of the elbow when marching through life, in these 
memories of the friendship of early days, I can testify that the man's power was 
ripening and strengthening in life and constantly beautifying it as he went on to 
its close. 

I can not help thinking it would be hard to find a life that in many respects 
is a purer, a more desirable one, than that which our friend lived. 

He devoted himself to thinking out those problems affecting the interests of 
the whole world, which are every day arising, and by his pen laid them before 
the eyes of men. He did not do it ostentatiously — the very character of his 
work made it a quiet one. Not seeking the glory of a public life — indeed quite 
aside from it, working away, day after day, night after night, putting his thought 
into such form that the intellect of the people of his time might profit by it, 
and now, during that thirty-odd years of that sort of labor, what may be really 
thought of the accomplishment? How much has been done we can imagine 
better than we can know. Starting from these early days, in the '50's, we know 
that great things were being agitated in our midst. Hearts were stirred with the 
suspicion of coming revolution. One of those great events which mark an epoch and 
which has made our age memorable to all ages, was coming to the surface. From 
that on, during all this period, his mind and pen labored unremittingly for the 
press, and he has contributed much to make our country what it is. 

All these things occur to us naturally, and I am glad of the opportunity to 
say, in this brief way, how it has impressed me ; and judging of it, as his early 
friends might judge, I feel, when we come to put him away, that his has been a 
life well-spent ; a life which, both for its happiness and accomplishment, has 
been well worth the living. Then when we add to it his excursions into that 
field to which he constantly turned— the love of art, the love of poetry, of nature, 
and of all that is beautiful in the world — we see the beauty of the life of our 
friend. We who have known him know the purity of his life — his adherence to 
what he believed was right — the singleness of purpose with which he followed 
what he thought was true. 



XVIV 



I believe those who know him best believe he has fairly worked out his 
allotted days according to the power that was in him. He has not spared himself, 
and in doing this he has, perhaps, accomplished more than could have been 
done during a longer life. 

To those near and dear to him, and to all his friends, year after year, his 
memory will only grow the riper and richer. There is nothing to look back 
upon with shame or fear in the life of our friend. As all these events of his 
life get a little further into the past they will glow with the halo of the light 
of all he has done, with the beautiful effects of distance tending to make us 
appreciate them more than when they were close to us, and making us better 
understand what the man was in his character and purpose. I think we and 
they have the right to feel this. The memory of his life to all who knew him 
will be a constant stimulus to be worthy of the friendship of such a man. 




TRIBUTES FROM ASSOCIATE JOURNALISTS. 







IHE following, written by a fellow worker with Mr. 
Plimpton for twenty-five years, appeared in the Com- 
mercial Gazette, April 24, 1886. 

There was that in Mr. Plimpton that was quite un- 
, tamable for empty worldly uses. His sense of honor was 
the keenest ; a mean act called forth his quick resent- 
ment. He entered no scramble for advancement ; intrigue 
he abhorred. His character was totally free from dis- 
guise. Deceit in others shocked him, and he was slow to give it that name. He 
was sensitive, yet a spirit of revenge was totally foreign to him. He was a man 
of infinite quiet jest, of infinite appreciation of the beautiful and of art, a friend 
of his kind, a cheerful and resolute soldier of duty. His generosity to the unfor- 
tunate was noted, and he did not turn away from those whose misfortunes were 
self-inflicted. In public affairs his feelings were as warm as his labors were earnest. 
His patriotism was an energetic sentiment. Those who enjoyed his friendship 
recognized in him a companion of rare accomplishments and a fineness of qualities 
that they will not meet with again in the same lovable combination. There is, 
in our opinion, no man living who can say that he was wronged in act or thought 
by Mr. Plimpton. His record is finished, and no one can step forth to point out a 
questionable deed, or a word of malice. He loved the world and its beauties, its 
creatures and its responsibilities, and his neighbor as himself. He brightened his 
wide circle while here ; and his departure leaves a clear and steady ray for remem- 
brance. 

Mr. Plimpton was a born poet. To devote himself to poetry would doubtless 
have been the ideal life for him. There was about him at times a poetic abstraction 
that his associates understood, and often, after the paper went to press, at 3 or 4 
o'clock in the morning, he would write two or three stanzas on a subject that had at 
some time of the busy day flashed into his mind, and had been put aside to wait for 
a moment of leisure. These poetic subjects were most varied. He did not seek to 
control them, nor reduce them to any system. Generally they were left unfinished ; 
yet they forced a hearing since he could not resist them entirely. Sometimes he 
would repeat to an intimate friend a couplet that had darted into his mind ready 
made, and he would complete the stanza, giving it more than likely an amusing turn. 
Vigorous as he was in the prose of journalism, and great as were his resources as a 



writer of masculine leaders and paragraphs with the keenest edge, he yet impressed 
those who knew him well as one who would never cease to feel the fascinations of 
poetry and belles lettres. 

Mr. Plimpton began to write poetry as a boy. He contributed poems to various 
newspapers and periodicals — the Knickerbocker Magazine, Godey's Lady's Book, 
Genius of the West, New York Tribune, Ohio State Journal, and Cincinnati Com- 
mercial. His poetry is graceful and gentle, the reflex of happy moods, or of tender 
seriousness. It is characterized by an intense love of natural scenery, especially 
far-reaching pastoral or forest loveliness. He was master, too, of the pathos that is 
twixt a smile and a tear, as evidenced by such poems as that in which the poor 
homeless woman, in her misery, beseeches His Honor to make her sentence four 
months instead of two. His lines are very musical, and owe their melody to an 
inborn sense of rhythm. His poems — of which he was himself so careless — should 
now be collected. They will give him a place of honor among Ohio singers. 

He was not willing, however, to collect them himself, for he was of a retiring 
spirit, and he saw in them youthful imperfections of art, or failure, in malurer years, 
to reach his own ideals or full intent. The poems are widely scattered in news- 
papers and magazines, and many of them can only be recovered by patient search. 
He never contemplated their publication in a volume ; but those who are familiar 
with even a few of them know that their author underrated their quality, and re- 
garded the subject of their collection too lightly : 



"Poets are all who love, who feel great truths, 
And tell them; and the truth of truths is love.'' 



J. VV. M. 





|N venturing a few comments on Floras B. Plimpton's literary character, 
I am happily aided by the impressions of personal acquaintance and 
friendship lasting through a series of years, and becoming somewhat 
close and intimate towards the end of his life. I may say that I had 
an impressive touch of his literary judgment at our first meeting, which 
was when he happened to be temporarily in charge of a great daily news- 
paper, and I the latest addition to the staff of local reporters. It was 
► then that he took pains to check my youthful ardor on entering the field 
of journalism, telling me that success lay not so much in enthusiasm 
and flights of fancy as in patience and plain work. At a later day he 
was more emphatic in declaring that if I hoped to get on well with the 
paper 1 must abandon my poetry (which I confess was not good), and stick to every- 
day prose. The advice, though cold and hard, went home with great force, for he 
was a poet of acknowledged merit, and an accomplished literary critic, as well as an 
experienced and practical journalist. However, I owe him a great debt of gratitude 
for kindly words of encouragement when I felt I sorely needed them, but could 
not solicit them anywhere. 

He was generously disposed towards young writers of whom many came to 
him for advice, carefully entering into the details of their plans, directing the 
progress of their work, writing introductions for their books, and assisting them 
in many ways. As to his own compositions, the mass of them of course went into 
the anonymous columns of the newspaper, to be turned to the gaze of the world 
for a day, and then to the dusty wall forever. While the poetic sentiment was 
strong within him, and its expression most happy, he almost to the point of total 
suppression subordinated the gentle muse to the rigorous requirements of his 
business tasks. Thus happen so many fragments and unfinished pieces among 
the few complete poems he has left to us. At times, when in perfect mood, and 
the idle moments dragged, he would dash off a few lines of a poem in his mind, 
and, suddenly interrupted by a summoning duty, thrust the manuscript, ink-wet 
and blotted, into his desk to be forgotten with the vanished inspiration. In after 
days, when clearing out the dusty pigeon-holes, he would come across these 
fugitives, read them to a friend who might be near, joke upon them and throw 
them into the waste basket — a few exceptions being stowed away again, to be 
"finished up some day," or, more likely, cast aside at the next overliauling. Dis- 
tinguished for his intelligence and appreciation in high art and literature, Mr. 
Plimpton was still very fond of indulging his taste for homely country themes, 
and of calling up memories of boyhood amid gentle surroundings. There were 



at least two or three of his ballads, unfinished and long ago lost, I suppose, which 
for sweetness and tenderness were hardly excelled by Phoebe Gary's famous 
"Old Brown Homestead" that 

"Reared its walls 
From the wayside dust aloof, 
Where the apple boughs could almost cast 
Their fruitage on the roof." 

However much we may prize Mr. Plimpton's more elaborate poems, carefully 
constructed and polished for formal occasions, and which in my humble judgment 
are not his best; however much we may enjoy his songs and narrative verses; 
however fondly we may gather up the loose fragments, glad in our regret at 
their unfinished state that the fragments themselves at least remain to us, who 
will attempt to estimate the number and quality of the poems of his composition 
that shall never see the light of print — not even the light of manuscript ? It was 
his habit in the evening to leave his study in the newspaper office and saunter 
about the streets of the city for exercise and fresh air. Frequently in his strolls 
he would compose a complete poem of several stanzas, which he would bring 
back in his mind, recite perhaps to the first person he met at the office — and 
that was the end of it. 

Mr. Plimpton wrote his last poem in November, 1885, after a long night's 
work. Living in the suburbs, it was his custom to remain in the office until day- 
light, and then take a street car for his home. I had asked him to contribute 
something for a little magazine of which I was the editor. One morning on coming 
to the office, I found the poem as he had left it on my desk. He had written 
it in the silent hours after the other newspaper people had gone, and he was in 
the great building entirely alone. He entitled it " Bereaved," and it certainly 
breathes the spirit of sorrow and desolation, if not of utter despair. This was at 
a time when Mr. Plimpton was suffering intensely, and rapidly losing strength 
under the disease that in a few months caused his death. 

J. M. C. 
Cincinnati, Oct. 28, 1886. 



ILLUSTRATIONS 

• BY ■ 

Prof. J. W. Shikmer, (deceased) 

Prof. Hans Gude, Berlin 

Prof. Wm. Riefstahl, Munich 

C. T. Webber, Cincinnati 

E. D. Grafton, " 

Henry Mosler, paris 

ChAS. NiEHAUS, ROME 

C. A. Fries, Cincinnati 

L. C. Weglau " 

H. F. Farny, ...... " 

L. F. Plympton, " 

A. R. Valentine, " 

Miss C. Newton, " 

Miss Laura Fry " 

Miss M. Spencer, " 

Mrs. a. B. Merriam, 

Mrs. C. a. Plimpton, " 



Reproductions by the Heliotype Printing Co., Bostoq. 
Moss Engraving Co., New York. 




The Oak, 

Souvenirs, 

The Poet's Habitation, 

In Dreams of Heaven, 

Lewis Wetzel, 

Content, 

Tlie Nobly Great, 

Prayer of Old Age, 

Evening Hymn, 

Christus Sylvae, 

The Cricket, 

The Universal Robber, 

The Reformer, 

Fort Du Qiiesne 



PAGE. 

I 

7 

lO 

>3 
14 
20 
21 

23 
24 

25 
29 

31 
32 
35 



CONTENTS. 



Ode, ...... 38 

Pittsburg, ...... 40 

Sonnet, ...... 41 

Mount Gilbo, ...... 42 

Hermit of Mount Gilbo, .... 45 

A Woman's Tear, . . .51 

A Poor Man's Thanksgiving, ... 52 

En Memoire, ...... 53 

Our Country's Flag, .... 57 

Love's Heralds, ..... 58 

Heaven's Evangels, .... 59 

Ossian to His Harp, .... 60 

Tell Me True, ..... 62 

The Hero of the Arctic, . . .64 

Why Mourn, O Friend, .... 66 

Star of the Evening, . . .67 

Make it Four, Yer Honor, .... 69 

The Brown Chick-a-dee, . . .72 

The Two Mariners, ..... 73 

The Emigrant's Invitation, . . .74 

From Their Serene Abodes, ... 75 

The Morning Prayer, . . . . -77 

Phi'io is Dead, ..... 79 

Her Record, ...... 81 

Sleigh-Ride Song, ..... 82 

Waiting, ...... 83 

In Remembrance, ..... 87 

Spiritus Sylvie, . . .89 

Bereaved, ...... 96 

There Comes a Time, ..... 97 

The Rural Editor, ..... 99 

In Memory, ...... log 

A New Year's Rhyme, . . . no 

The Farmer, . . . .115 

By the Sea-Side, . . . 116 

Sonnet, . . . . .118 



CONTENTS. 



The Fountain in the Wilderness, 

The Unreturning, 

As I Love, 

Morning on Maryland Heights, 

Summer Days, 

A Suburban Home, 

The Avowal, 

Protean Dust, 

The Early Dead, 

A Retrospect, 

Home, 

Ellula, 

The Flower Angels, 

Waiting to Die, 

The Loved Ones Afar, 

October, 

The Unsealed Future, 

Song of Parting, 

Pio Nono, 

For His Mercy Endureth Forever, 



119 

126 
127 
131 
133 
135 
>36 
137 
J 39 
140 

143 
145 
146 
149 
150 
151 
152 
153 
155 




POEMS 



THE OAK. 




RANULY apart the giant monarch stands, 
All reverend with lichens, looking down 
A green declivity on pastoral lands, 
And all the waysides choke with dn.st and heat, 
Beneath the shadow of his regal crown, 
Fair maids and lusty youth at eve retreat. 
To dance the hours away with lightly-twinkling feet. 



When, to the singing of the early birds, 
vSpring bur.sts in blossoms from the southern sky, 
And -scornful of the stall, the lowing herds 
In pastures green delight to graze and lie : 
When milk-white doves to mossy gables fly — 
Heaven filled with song, earth with sweet utterings, 
And winds through odorous vales blow pleasantly, 
Its thousand boughs seem bursting into wings, 
vSilken and smooth and green and full of flutterings. 



Among thick drapery of green its nest 

The dormouse builds, and there the robins sing, 

Till E^■ening sets her roses in the west. 

On topmost boughs the chattering squirrels .swing, 

And rovmd its twigs the spiders spin and cling 

Their gauz}- nets ; there too the beetles creep 

To hide in shaggy cells, where wood-ticks ring 

Their mid-watch bells while wear}- mortals sleep — 

What time, 'tis said, the elves their m3-stic revels keep. 

Here, ancients sa}', his ro3-al brothers stood ; 

But none remain.s — the giant stands alone. 

The gracious lord of the primeval wood, 

The hoar}- monarch of an heirless throne. • 

Here, when the summer's glory gilds its own, 

And day dims d3'ing in the purple air. 

The angels come and wake each heavenly tone 

That floats around and fondh" lingers there — 

A wordless song of praise from murmuring lips of prajer. 

Or when capricious autumn d^-es with hues 
Crimson and brown and gold, this forest Lear, 
And spangles of the hoar-frost and the dews 
Like countless brilliants flash afar and near 
The gorgeous state he keeps ; and cold and clear, 
The subtle arrows of quick-quivering light 
With luster tip the leaves now crisp and sere. 
Then seems the oak th' enchantment of the night, 
A splendor of weird spells, a cheat upon the sight ! 

But most 'tis kingl}- when the laboring woods 
With gust}- winds and darkening tempests roar. 
And crash the thunders of the seething floods 
That snow their white foam on the wrecking shore ; 
When Winter rages on the lonel}- moor, 



THE OAK. 

Yokes the swift whirlwind to his icy car, 

And in Titanic folds the heavens o'er, 

Gathers his cloudy banners from afar, 

And marshals with shrill blasts the elements to war. 

O then the sound of the entangled wind, 
Among its boughs, is like the storm}' swell 
Of organ-pipes in fretted walls confined. 
To roll through arches vast and die in vault and cell. 
How like the grand old monarch, when the fell 
And pitiless storm seemed with the world to mock 
His uncrovvn'd age — and yet how vStrong and well 
It braved the storm and bore the tempest's shock. 
Firm in its native soil as alpine rock to rock. 

And well I love that oak ! Not those that shade 

Thy classic slopes. Mount Ida ; or shake down 

Their brown-hued fruit, from gnarled boles decayed, 

Beside the winding Simois ; or crown 

The horrid steeps where ivied castles frown, 

And dark-eyed bandits bid th' unwarj' stand ; 

Are regal in their centuries of renown 

As thou, hale oak, whose glories thus command 

My humble song, O pride of all our mountain land ! 

Here rests the poor wayfarer, soiled and worn, 

And folds his hands in slumbers soft and deep ; 

Here comes the widowed soul her loss to mourn. 

Counts o'er her trysts, and counts them but to weep ; 

Here happy lovers blissful unions keep. 

And bending age its vanished j-outh deplores. 

Or sighs for heaven's sweet rest, life's gentlest sleep. 

That gives youth back to age, the lost restores, 

And brings the welcoming hands that waft to hapi^ier shores. 



The village maid, who sing.s among the fields, 

In wrinkled sorrow sighs her soul awa\- ; 

The dimpled babe to reverend honors ^-ields, 

And patriarch Faith sees calmly close the day. 

Life laughs — loves — dies; afar the years convey 

On cloud}- wings the pleasures we pursue, 

-Vnd still thou piercest the repelling clay. 

And lift'st thy regal head to heaven's blue, 

Green with a thousand years of sunshine, rain and dew. 

In all thy varied glory thou hast been 

The idol of my boyhood, and the pride 

Of more exacting manhood ; now, as then, 

I love to lean th\- moss-green trunk beside. 

And mingle, with the voices of the tide 

And th}' strange whisperings, my unstudied .song. 

And here recall the dear delights who died 

vSince thy great arms grew obstinatel}- strong — 

But whose quick feet no more beneath thy shade shall throng. 



vr-yr^^. 




SOUVENIRS. 



I. — l'Envov. 

ivS sweetly tranced the ravished Florentine 
Tarried 'mid pallid gloom, again to hear 
Cassella warble tnneful to his ear, 
Thus I, a Bacchant, rosy with love's wine, 
Drink thy words, sweet, forgetful with what haste 
Time's winged heel beats rearward all the hours. 
To me alike all seasons, deeds and powers, 
When by the atmosphere of love embraced, 
I sit sun-crowned, and as a god elate, 
In thy dear presence. Let the great world go. 
In lowliest meads the pansies love to grow. 
And sweet Content was born to low estate. 
Here is our blessed Egeria — let us stay : 
Where love has fixed the heart, no charm can lure awa_\-. 




SOUVENIRS. 




II. — TELL HER. 

RIVER Beautiful ! the breezy hills 
That slope their green declivities to thee, 
In purple reaches hide mj- life from me. 
Go then, beyond the thunder of the mills, 
And wheels that churn thy waters into foam. 
And murmuring softly to the darling's ear, 
And murmuring sweetly when my love shall hear. 
Tell how I miss her presence in our home. 
Sa}' that it is as lonel}^ as my heart ; 
The rooms deserted ; all her pet birds mute ; 
The sweet geraniums odorless ; the flute 
Its stops untouched, while wondrous gems of art 
Lie lusterless as diamonds in a mine. 
To kindle in her smile and in her radiance shine, 



SOUVENIRS. 



III. — RETURN. 




ETURN — return ! nor longer stay thy feet, 
Where nigged hills shut in the peaceful dale, 
And chattering runnels riot through the vale, 
And lose themselves in meadows violet sweet. 
Or does the oriole charm thee ; or the lark 

Lure thee to green fields, where the gurgling brook 
Leaps up to kiss thy feet, the while we look 
For thee with tearful eyes from morn till dark? 
O winds, that blow from out th' inconstant west, 
O birds, that eastward wing your heavenly way, 
Tell her of our impatience — her delay, 
And woo the wanderer to her humble nest ; 
Come, as the dove that folds her wings in rest. 
When holy evening sets her watch-star in the west. 




THE POET'S HABITATION. 

HE Poet's habitation is the World ; 
And his most sacred thoughts become its own. 
He is the interpreter of the natural earth, 
And gives inanimate substances a voice 
And subtlety of language, which do make 

Them sylnls to the restless heart of man — 

Confessors to its secret qiiestionings ; 

And he delights in solitude to dwell, 

■]\Iid grey-cloaked crags, around whose loveless fronts, 

Like Firmness baring to the sport of Fate, 

Frosty Euroclydon and Boreas gruif 

Hoarsely and harshl}* howl their discontent. 

Mountains that, grandl}- rising, prop the sky, 

Inaccessible ravines and forests dark, 

The solemn sounding sea and lonely shore. 

Desert and moor, and melancholy haunt. 

The grave, the silent, vast, profound, siiblime, 

Are to his .spirit, in their loneliness, 

Th' unerring teachings of a hidden Power. 

He revels in the storm ; and in the roar 

Of sulphurous thunder, and the fearful pulse 

Of troubled waters beating on the shore. 

He hears the anthem of a Universe 

To the Invisiblk. 



In his milder moods 
He seeks the quiet of the templed grove, 
Or the untrammeled glen, that human art 
Hath not despoiled of natural loveliness. 



THE POET S HABITATION. 

Th' enameled banks that hem the gurgling brook — 

Whose crystal waters with the scent of mint, 

And roses wild (whose petaled bliishes fall, 

And glide, like pleasures in our childhood, 

vSo gently down the stream) are redolent — 

Those banks, where tender flocks their gambols take, 

vSweet with the breath of violets and anemones. 

And of the wild-pea, sweetest child of spring ; 

The willow copse that bends its tassel'd boughs 

To the least breathing of the gentle South ; 

And the old oaks that spread their generous limbs 

As cool retreats 'gainst June's meridian sun, — 

These, with the outlines of such pastoral scene. 

Swelling and blending with the softest grace, 

Like woman's beaut}', to his dreamy eye 

Are a perpetual delight and joy. 

To him no music sweeter than the songs of birds. 

Or childhood's artless utterance 

Of jovs wild gushing through its bounding heart ; 

Or the low carol of a love-born song. 

By maiden lips, beneath an evening sky, 

Sung with fresh orals to the ear of Love ; 

Or plaints of lucid fountains, or the chimes 

Of distant church-bells dying on the air, 

That leave, like kind farewell words, within the heart 

A most delicious calm of pensive jo^^ 

And when retiring fades the jocund day — 
When sable-hooded twilight, like old age 
That wraps itself in shadows, cometh on. 
And shuts from vision all external things 
(As sleep the senses from the outer world) — 
When, even as diamonds set in sapphire, blaze 
In the cerulean all the hosts of heaven — 



THE rOET S HABITATION. 

Forever young-eyed watchers o'er old earth — 

His silver-slippered Fancy calls to life 

Th' innumerable fairies of the sylvan shade, 

Peoples the founts and streams with dew-eyed nymphs, 

And to their revels by the moon-light calls 

Pale Fay and timid Fawn and laughing Puck, 

And give to silence and to solitude 

A thousand denizens of purity. 





IN DREAMS OF HEAVEN. 



N dreams of Heaven I see thy face, 
Divinely sweet, divinely fair ; 

No stain of earth hath left its trace 
To mar the fadeless beauties there, 

But calm and pure its high repose. 

And fresher than the morning rose. 



I wake, and lo ! the vision fled, 

Leaves doubt and dark'ning thought behind 
Shall I, when numbered with the dead, 

Thy radiant beauty seek and find, 
And walk beside thee, hand in hand, 
The fair fields of the better land ? 

Yet gentle spirit, oft thine eyes 

Must fill with tears as they survey 

A scene where every pleasure dies. 

Where loves grow cold, and hopes decay, 

And life, however bright and blest, 

Ends in the one desire for rest. 



LEWIS WETZEL* 










I stout-hearted Lewis Wetzel 
Rides down the river vShore, 
^^^ i he wilderness behind him. 
And the wilderness before. 



He rides in the cool of morning, 
Humming a dear old tune, 

Into the heart of the greenwood. 
Into the heart of June. 

He needs no guide in the fore.st. 
More than the hunter bees ; 

His guides are the cool green mosses 
To the northward of the trees. 



* Lewis Wetzel was a '• mighty huuter " io the pioneer days of Western Virginia, of wliich he was a native. Many traditionary 
anecdotes of his extraordinary skill with the rirte are yet preserved, some of which have been published. An imperfect sketch of his 
life is given in Dr. Doddridge's " Notes on the Settlement ami Indian M'ars in the Western parts of Virginia and Penusyh uiiia." 



LEWIS WETZEL. 15 



Nor fears he the foe whose footstep 
Is light as the summer air — 

The tomahawk hangs in his shirt-belt, 
And the scalpknife glitters there! 

The stealth}^ Wyandots tremble, 
And speak his name with fear. 

For his aim is sharp and deadly. 
And his rifle's ring is clear. 

So, pleasantly rides he onward, 

Pausing to hear the stroke 
Of the settler's axe in the forest, 

Or the crash of a falling oak; 

Pausing at times to gather 

The wild fruit overhead; 
(For in this rarest of June da3'S 

The service-berries are red); 

And as he grasps the full boughs, 
To bend them down amain, 

The dew and the blushing berries 
Fall like an April rain. 

The partridge drums on the dr\' oak. 

The croaking corby caws. 
The blackbird sings in the spice-bush. 

And the robin in the haws ; 

And, as they chatter and twitter. 
The wild birds seem to sa3-, 

"Do not harm us, good Lewis, 
And }'ou shall have luck to-da}-." 



t6 



LEWIS WETZEL. 

So. pleasantl}- rides he onward, 
Till the shadows mark the noon, 

Into the leafy greenwood, 
Into the heart of Jnne. 

II. 

Now speed thee on, good Lewis, 
For the sultry sun goes down. 

The hill-side shadows lengthen, 
And the eastern sky is brown. 

Now speed thee where the river 
Creeps slow in the co-verts cool, 

And the lilies nod their white bells 
By the margin of the pool. 

He crosses the silver Kaska 
With its chestnut-covered hills, 

And the fetlocks of his roan steed 
Are wet in a hundred rills. 

"And there," he cries in transport, 
"The alders greenest grow, 

Where the wild stag comes for water, 
And her j-oung fawn leads the doe." 

Grasping his trust}- rifle, 
He whistles his dog behind. 

Then stretches his finger upward 
To know how sets the wind.f 



t It was a custom aitioug pitmeer huuters (>a>s Doddridge), when ou huDtiug expeditions, aud in the vicinity of favorite liunt- 
ing grounds, to thrust the forefinger into the mouth, aud wheo heated, to bold it out into the air. By this means they readily 
detected the course of the wind. 



LEWIS WETZEL. 

O ! steady grows the strong arm, 
And the hunter's dark e3'e keen, 

As he sees the branching antlers 
Through the alder thickets green. 

A sharp, clear ring through the greenwood, 
And with mighty leap and bound. 

The pride of the western forest 
lyies bleeding on the ground. 

Then out from the leafy shadow 

A stalwart hunter springs. 
And his unsheathed scalpknife glittering 

Against his rifle rings. 

"And who are you," quoth Lewis, 
"That com'st 'twixt me and mine?" 

And his cheek is flu.shed with anger. 
As a bacchant's flushed with wine. 

"What boots that to thy purpose?" 

The stranger hot replies; 
"My rifle marked it living. 

And mine when dead the prize." 

Then with sinewy arms the}- grapple. 

Like giants fierce in brawls. 
Till stretched along the greensward 

The humbled hunter falls. 

Upspringing like a panther, 

He cries in wrath and pride, 
"Though your arms may be the stronger, 

Our rifles shall decide." 



17 



i8 



l.KWIS VVETZKL. 



" Sta3', stranger," quoth good Lewis. 

"The chances are not even; 
Who challenges my rifle 

vShonld be at peace with heaven. 

"Now take this rod of alder, 

Set it b_v 3'onder tree, 
A hundred yards beyond me. 

And Mail \ou there and see. 




" For he wlio dares sucli peril 
But lightly holds his breath ; 

Ma}- his vmshrived soul Ije read\- 
To welcome sudden death ! ' ' 



So the stranger takes the alder. 
And wondering stands to view, 

While Wetzel's aim grows stead}' 
And he cuts the rod in two. 



LEWIS WETZEL. 19 

"Bj' Heavens!" the stranger shouted, 

"One only, far or nigh, 
Hath arms like the lithe young a.sh-tree, 

Or half so keen an eye ; 

And that is I.ewis Wetzel:" 

Quoth Lewis, "Here he stands;" 
So they speak in gentler manner, 

And clasp their friendly hands. 

Then talk the mighty hunters 

Till the summer dew descends, 
And they who met as foemen 

Ride out of the greenwood friends ; — 

Ride out of the leafy greenwood 

As rises the 3ellow moon, 
And the purple hills lie pleasantly 

In the softened air of June. 



CONTENT. 

N this decaying leaf, 
54, And that bright scarlet berry, 
I read of times for grief 
And seasons to be merry. 

Go, then, th}- cheerfnl ways. 
To sup with joy or sorrow, 

Hope with fair Youth to-da\'. 
And dream with Age to-morrow. 

For God be thanked, who fills 

The world with light and shadow, 
Puts .strength across the hills 
And beaut}^ in the meadow. 

He knows our varying ways. 

Their bitterness and sweetness, 
And gives to wholesome days 

Their measure of completeness. 

Thus singing will I go. 

Nor count mj^ gains or losses, 
And bear, as best I know. 

The burden of my crosses. 




And this my onh' creed 

In hours of doubt and blindness, 
Who sows for human need 

Shall reap in human kindness. 



THE NOBLY GREAT. 




ONE but the good are nobly great ! 

To him will justice yield the prize 
Who seeks to better man's estate, 

And render earth a paradise. 
What thoiigh the brow be stellate with the gems 
Of roj'al bount}^ or the civic wreath 
Weave its green honors 'mid Narcissian curls, 

If the high soul beneath 
Purple the luster of those diadems 
With thoughts of blood, that over groaning worlds 
Would stride to power, nor fear the bold essay. 
Though human hearts should pave the slippery way ! 
When Death shall smite the scepter of such power, 

And the gray sexton hide his human clay ; 
When, like the vision of an idle hour, 

vShall pass the glory of his strength awa}', 
Like a dark shadow, through the coming years 

Shall the remembrance of his deeds extend, 
And the}- who praised, when vengeance roused their fears. 

Refuse to own that he was once their friend. 
Beside his grave shall watch hand-hidden shame, 

And Infamy around it stalk in gloom ; 
Just curses fall, like blight, upon his name, 
And Hate disturb the ashes of his tomb. 



THE NOBLY GREAT. 

He who would stand among 
The great celestials canonized b}- Love — 

Truth's hero-gods and bards of hoi}' song — 

And shine, a glor}-, 'mid that might}- throng, 
Must noble deeds b}- noble aims approve. 
It matters not how lowh' be his birth, 

How poor his garb, or humble be his aim ; 
Love, Truth and Justice stamp the man of worth, 

And 3-ield the homage of enduring fame. 

The marble crumbles ; monuments deca^^ 
And brazen statues topple to their fall ; 

Time eats the hardest adamant awa}-, 
And cold Oblivion mars the pride of all. 

But he who graces ever}- act with love, 
Or stamps a thought with th' impress of truth, 
Twines laureled honors of perpetua'^ youth 
Around his brow, and life in duty spent. 
Builds in the hearts of men a monument 

Which Hate or Time will vainlv strive to move. 



PRAYER OF OLD AGE. 




H Time ! deal gently with us — let us go 

As peaceful to our rest as summer's bird, 
When lulled by evening winds and tinkling flow 
Of rock-born fountains. In our hearts are stirred 
Dear memories of the days of long ago, 

Affection's look and love's endearing word. 
O kindly lead earth's pilgrims by the hand 
To the calm portals of the Silent Land. 





EVENING HYMN. 

ER the cragg}- mountains pealing, 

Listen to the vesper bell, 
Softl}' o'er the waters stealing, 

Heavenly peace its tones foretell. 
Father, up in heaven above us, 
Deign to pardon, bless and love us ; 
Guard us ever, 
Keep us ever 
From all ill while here we dwell. 

As the sun shines on the ocean. 

Ere it leaves our happy skies, 
vSmile iipon our heart's devotion — 

Let our praise to Thee arise. 
For the sins to us forgiven. 
For the peace we have from heaven. 
Holy Father, 
Blessed Father, 
Let our praise to Thee arise. 

Now the evening star revealing, 

Shines upon retiring day. 
And the purple tints are stealing 

From the mountain tops away. 
Be Thy love our star of guidance, 
When age dims life's cheerful radiance. 
Keep us near Thee, 
Ever near Thee — 
Never let us go astray. 




CHRISTUS SYLV^. 



HE lizard and the water snake, 
All things that haunt in tarn and brake, 
Are bred where, fretting through its flags, 
The sluggish Pymatuning lags ; 
The winds grow heavy as with death, 
(So do they feel the poisonous breath 
Of snaky vines, green spume of sedge 
And fern that fringe the river's edge), 
Swoon where the waters darkly pass 
Stained with the stain of bruised grass, 
Roots of dead things, and leaves the years 
Have scorched with fires and steeped in tears. 

Broad flats there are to left and right : 
A wilderness whose mystic shades 
Nor light is seen nor moon invades. 
Where fear the startled foot makes light 
As steps among damp graves at night. 
From tangled undergrowth uprise 
Thick-fruited beeches, hickories. 
Elms pendulous and walnuts hoar, 
The ghostly-armored sycamore, 
And rugged oaks from whose green cowls 
Hoot the long night the hooded owls. 



26 CHRISTIS SVLV.K. 



II. 



Drawn strangeh- to this solitude 
Came one whom no man understood. 
Painter and sculptor, he had wrought 
In outward fonn his inward thought, 
Whereof the meaning dimly guessed 
The rude who stared and round him pressed. 
They knew what Hocks were best afield, 
What lands could fattest harvests yield ; 
Seasons they knew and times, but not 
The painter's dream, the sculptor's thought. 
And whispered, wlien they passed him by, 
' ' Hist ! he hath madness in his e\-e. " ' 

Careless of good report or ill, 

He wrought with hand of patient skill 

In line and shade and form to tell 

A tale of tales most wonderful — 

How, touched with sorrow for our state, 

Heaven opened wide its pearlv gate 

And One, to wound our sinful pride, 

Descended, praj-ed for us and died. 

One face upon his canvas shone. 

One face he carv^ed in wood and stone, 

Wherein great pit}" was and love 

And suffering, the heart to move ; 

Yet so divine its gracious air 

That women came and worshipped there, 

And men, Avho thought to scoff and jeer, 

Turned to wipe off tli' unbidden tear. 

But he the artist, was as one 
Who in a language not his own, 
StriAcs to make clear the laboring: sense ; 



CHRISTUS SVL.VA'.. 2? 



Or one who hears in holy hours 
Voices that seem from native land — 
The angels singing 'mid the flowers — 
Hears them but can not understand ; 
And though unskilled on instruments 
Yet seeks to utter through the keys 
The burden of their melodies ; 
So trying, oft, as oft in vain, 
To shape the image of his brain, 
With troubled countenance he cried 
" Unsatisfied, unsatisfied ! " 
And in great grief none understood, 
Withdrew him to the solitude. 



"Lord Christ!" he praj-ed, hand smiting hand, 

In the dark shadow of the land, 

"As thou didst show thyself to her 

Who waited at the sepulchre, 

Once more reveal thyself to sight, 

And out of darkness bring the light. 

Make clear ni}- inward sense of Thee — 

Love, softening, heavenh' majest}', 

Grace, shining through a cloud of pain, 

Patience to bear and not complain, 

Forgiveness, conquering sense of wrong, 

And pity for a scofiing throng. 

So shall these hands obedient trace 

The features of no mortal face, 

And men shall say, "Behold how fair — 

The presence of a God is there ! ' ' 

And still he prayed: "Lord! Thou art here 

Embracing as the atmosphere. 

Thv love the wood-birds' notes confess, 



28 CHRISTUS SYLV^K. 

The simple flower thy tenderness ; 
Thou walkest in the wilderness. 
So will I carve m}- thought of Thee 
And fashion from the living tree ; 
In Thine own temple shall it stand, 
O'erlooking all the lovely land, 
And men shall say, approaching near, 
Behold, our Father dwelleth here. 

IV. 

So said, from out fair ranks of trees 
He chose — for sweetness stung by bee.s — 
One whose green tops the morning sun 
Was first of trees to look upon. 
The fragrant boughs he lopped : it stood 
Bare as when winters scourge the wood. 
Or lightnings rive, or tongues of fire 
Outrun the winds in keen desire. 
Then wrought in saintly solitude 
This man whom no man understood. 
And through the silence of the air 
At evening rose the solemn pra3-er, 
"In thine own temple, Lord appear I " 

When frosts make silvery every sound, 
And scarlet trumpets fire the ground, 
Two hunters, wandering through the wood. 
Saw with awed eyes and understood. 
Prone at the carved trees gnarled face, 
One dead they saw, and shivering there. 
Clear in the cr3\stal of the air, 
A face that seemed no mortal face — 
The presence of a God was there ! 




si 111 '\ 



niK CRICKK 



>iiiiiiiSB3iSS 



\VIiHX sfinir.tht ic\■^\v,fl^ds of winter sing, 
The harsh hail ajililftig- madly at the door, 
And thougiit _l;(X's hhi\^ring for the houseless poor 

Wlib feel ythe ])itt'er hlastl'find biting sting — 

If closer to my fireside fillen I cling. 
And hear from out thll .hollow of the hearth 
The camiorlahle erickelt chirp its mirth, 

vStraiglitway my vision fills with blossoming 
Of summer sweets, and fragrant is the earth, 

Meculow-s and la\vn«( jgrnw green ; the wandering breeze 

A tuneful troubadour 4mong the trees, 
vSings softly, wooing beauty into birth, 

rhrds car(tl, children shout, and earth and sky 

,;Blen4Uike the notes of perfect harmony. 



THE UNIVERSAL ROBBER. 




]IME, thy cunning thefts I trace, 
In the mirror of my face. 
In what hour of sleep did'st thou 
Pluck the brown hair from my pow, 
And, with fingers deft and sly, 

Steal bright laughter from mine eye : 

Charm away the careless quip 

From the sumach-blooded lip, 

And, grown bold, from soft hands press. 

Radiant warmth and nimbleness. 

And so changing the fair show 

That myself I scarcely know ? 




THE REFORMER. 

HE vStreams that feed the thinsty land, 

Give largess freely as they flow, 
From mountain rivulets expand 

And, strong-armed, sweep the vales below : 



And eddying on, through bay and bight. 
Through lonel}- wild and lovely lea, 

B3' scarped cliff and stormy height, 
In mighty rivers reach the sea. 

So shall he grow who gives to life 
High purposes and lofty deeds. 

Who sees the calm above the strife 
Of blinded self and narrow creeds. 

Oh, large of heart ! oh, nobh- great ! 

He scorns the thrall of sect and clan. 
Shakes off the fetters forged in hate, 

And claims a brotherhood with man. 

Dwarfed Ignorance fills the world with wail. 
Opinion sneers at his advance ; 

And Error, rusted in his mail. 

Strides forth to meet him, lance to lance. 

Mean, pigmy souls that cringe to form 
And fatten on the dregs of time. 

Start from the dust in their alarm, 

And prate of rashness, treason, crime. 



THE REFORMER. 33 



Law's wrinkled, cunning advocates 

Quote mummied precedents and rules, 

The relics of barbaric states. 

The maxims of med'eval schools. 

For him the tyrant's guard is set. 
For him the bigot's fagots fired, 

For him the headsman's ax is whet. 

And chains are forged and minions hired. 

Strong in his purpose, patient still, 

He wrestles with the doubts of mind. 

And shakes the iron thews of will, 
As oaks are shaken by the wind. 

Invincible in God and Truth, 

To smite the errors of his age 
He gives the fiery force of 3"outh, 

The tempered wisdom of the sage. 

He sees, as prophets saw afar. 

In faith and vision wrapped sublime. 

The coming of the Morning Star, 
The glory of the latter time. 

His faith, outreaching circumstance. 
Beholds, be^^ond the narrow range 

Of present time, the slow advance 

Of cycles bringing wondrous change. 

He hears the mighty march of mind. 
The stately' steppings of the free, 

Where glorious in the sun and wind, 
Their blazoned banners 3-et shall be. 



34 



THE KEKOK.MKK. 



Well can he wait : the seed that lies 

Hid in the cold, repulsive clav, 
Shall burst in after centuries, 

And spread its glories to the day. 

Well can he wait : though sown in tears 

And martyred blood, with scourge and stripe, 

God watches through the whirling ^^ears, 
And quickens when the hour is ripe. 

Man's hands ma_v fail, the slackened rein 
Drop from his nerveless grasp, but still 

The wheels shall thunder on the plain, 
Rolled by the lightning of his will. 





FORT DU OUESNE: 
A HISTORICAL CENTENNIAL BALLAD. 

November 25, 1758— 1858. 



OME, fill the beaker, while we chaitnt a pean of old da}-s : 
By Mars ! no men shall live again more worthy of our praise, 
Than the}- who stormed at Louisburg and Frontenac amain, 
And shook the English standard out o'er the ruins of Du Quesne. 

For glorious were the daj's they came, the soldiers strong and true, 
And glorious were the da3'S, the}^ came for Pennsylvania, too ; 
When marched the troopers sternly on through forest's autumn brown, 
And where St. George's cross was raised, the oriflamme went down. 

Virginia sent her chivalr}- and Maryland her brave. 

And Penns3'lvania to the cause her noblest yeomen gave : 

O, and proud were they who wore the garb of Indian hunters then, 

For ever}' sturdj' youth was worth a score of common men ! 

They came from Carolina's pines, from fruitful Delaware — 
The staunchest and the stoutest of the chivalrous were there ; 
And calm and tall above them all, i' the red November sun, 
Like Saul above his brethren, rode Colonel Washington. 

O'er leagues of wild and waste they pa.ssed, they forded stream and fen. 
Where danger lurked in ever^^ glade, and death in every glen ; 
They heard the Indian ranger's cry, the Frenchman's far-oflf hail. 
From purple di.stance echoed back through the hollows of the vale. 



36 FORT DU QUESNE. 

And ever and anon they came, along their dangerous way, 

Where, ghasth', 'mid the yellow leaves, their slaughtered comrades lay : 

The tartans of Grant's Highlanders were sodden yet and red. 

As routed in the rash assault the}- perished as the}' fled. 

— Ah ! man}- a lass aj'ont the Tweed shall rue the fatal fraj^ 
And high Virginian dames shall mourn the ruin of that daj'. 
When gallant lad and cavalier i' the wilderness were slain, 
'Twixt laureled Loyalhanna and the outposts of Du Quesne. 

And there before them was the field of massacre and blood, 

Of panic, rout and shameful flight, in that disastrous wood 

Where Halket fell and Braddock died, with man}- a noble one 

Whose white bones glistened through the leaves i' the pale November sun. 

Then spoke the men of Braddock's Field, and hung their heads in shame, 
For England's tarnished honor and for England's sullied fame ; 
"And, by St. George!" the soldiers swore, "we'll wipe away the stain 
Before to-morrow's sun-set, at the trenches of Du Quesne." 



'Twas night along the autumn hills, the sun's November gleam 
Had left its crimson on the leaves, its tinge upon the stream ; 
And Hermit Silence kept his watch 'mid ancient rocks and trees, 
And placed his finger on the lip of babbling brook and breeze. 

The bivouac 's set by Turtle Creek : and while the soldiers sleep, 
The swarth}' chiefs around their fires an anxious council keep. 
Some spoke of murmurs in the camp, scarce whispered to the air, 
But tokens of discouragement, the presage of despair. 

vSonie a retreat advised ; 'twas late ; the winter drawing on ; 
The forage and provision, too — so Ormsby said — were gone 
Men could not feed on air and fight : whatever Pitt might say, 
In praise or censure, still, they thought, 'twere wiser to delay. 



FORT DU QUESNE. 37 

Then up spoke iron-headed Forbes, and through his feeble frame 
There ran the lightning of a will that put them all to shame : 
"I'll hear no more," he roundly swore; "we'll storm the fort amain! 
ril sleep in h— 1 to-morrow night, or sleep in Fort Du Quesne!" 

So said : and each to sleep addressed his wearied limbs and mind, 

And all was hushed i' the forest, save the sobbing of the wind. 

And the tramp, tramp, tramp of the sentinel, who started oft in fright 

At the shadows wrought 'mid the giant trees by the fitful camp-fire light. 

Good Lord ! what sudden glare is that that reddens all the sky, 

As though hell's legions rode the air and tossed their torches high ! 

Up, men ! the alarm drum beats to arms ! and the solid ground seems riven 

By the shock of warring thunderbolts in the lurid depth of heaven ! 

O there was clattering of steel, and mustering in arra}'. 

And shouts and wild huzzas of men, impatient of dela}'. 

As came the scouts swift-footed in—" They fly! the foe! they fly ! 

They've fired the powder magazine and blown it to the vSky!" 



Now morning o'er the frosty hills in autumn splendor came, 
And touched the rolling mists with gold, and flecked the clouds with flame 
And through the brown woods on the hills — those altars of the world — 
The blue smoke from the settler's hut and Indian's wigwam curled. 

Yet never, here, had morning dawned on such a glorious din 
Of twanging trump, and rattling drum, and clanging culverin, 
And glittering arms and sabre gleams and serried ranks of men. 
Who marched with banners high advanced along the river glen. 

O, and royally they bore themselves who knew that o'er the seas 
Would speed the glorious tidings from the loyal Colonies, 
Of the fall of French dominion with the fall of Fort Du Quesne, 
And the triumph of the Engli.sh arms from Erie to Champlain. 



38 



KOKT DU gUESNE. 



Before high noon the}' halted ; and while the}- stood at rest, 
The}' saw, nnfolded gloriously the "Gateway of the West," 
There flashed the Allegheny, like a scinietar of gold, 
And king-like in its majesty, Monongaliela rolled : 

Be}-ond, the River Beautiful swept down the woody vales, 

Where Commerce, ere a century passed, should .spread her thousand sails ; 

Between the hazy hills they saw Contrecoeur's armed batteaux, 

And the flying, flashing, feathery oars of the Ottawas' canoes. 

Then, on from rank to rank of men, a shout of triumph ran, 

And while the cannon thundered, the leader of the van. 

The tall Virginian, mounted on the walls that smouldered yet, 

And shook the English standard out, and named the place Fort Pitt. 

Again with wild huzzas the hills and river valleys ring. 
And they swing their loyal caps in air, and shout — " Long live the King! 
"Long life unto King George !" they cry, "and glorious be the reign 
That adds to English statesmen Pitt, to English arms Du Ouesne." 



ODE, 



XE lumdred years ago to-day. 

In martial state the heroes came. 
To plant within the wilderness 

Their grand old English name and fame. 
They saw the glory of the land, 
The realm of nations j-et to be. 
And wrested from the allied foe 
The Empire of the Free. 




39 



United thu.s may Saxon sires 
And sons forever face the foe, 

And strike for Freedom as they struck 
One huiidretl years ago. 



One hundred 3-ears have passed — and Peace 

In golden fulhiess o'er iis reigns, 
Full Plenty smiles on all our hills, 

And Gladness sings in all our plains. 
The flag of freemen greets the air 

Where waved the .standard of our sires. 
And all their altars .still are bright 
With Freedom's sacred fires. 

Here Fame shall keep in holy trust 

The names of tlio.se who met the foe, 
And won for us this glorious land 
One hundred years ago. 



So aid us, Heaven, to keep our trust, 

That in the coming centuries. 
They'll sa)'. Where truth and valor live 

The light of Freedom never dies. 
God of our fathers ! keep us .still 

The chosen jjeople of Thy hand, 
One in our fealty to Thee, 
One to our native land. 

O guide us, while we watch and guard. 

From inward strife and outward foe, 
The heritage so nobly won 
One hundred 3'ears ago. 



PITTSBURG. 




RILED in thick clouds, sliitt in bj- shelving hills, 
The city of a thousand forges lies, 
Xor feels the pleasant glow of sunny skies. 
Hard toil have they who, in her thundering mills. 
Stir the white-heated metal or draw out 
The lengthening bar, or at the ponderous wheel 
Turn the huge shaft and shape the edging steel. 
How like a hell from pit and chimne}' spout 
The tumbling smoke and lapping flames that light 
The sky like torches, and reflecting quiver 
Along the tremulous surface of the river. 
Unlovely though she be, in Freedom's might 
Her strong hands Ijuild — buttress and tower and crest — 
The iron gate-wav to the golden West. 




A SONNET. 



^glO delicate and fair ! to me thou art 

A semblance of the frailest, tenderest thing 
That blooms on earth or sports on silken wing. 




Child of the skies, of Heaven the purest part, 

Yet all of woman in thy loving heart ! 

Tlion cam'st to iis when the mild airs of spring 
Blew open the first flowers ; when first birds sing 

In the fresh-budding forests thou'lt depart 

Like them, I fear, when life's declining year 

Brings the rough winds and pitiless storms, that flv 
Like angry fiends across the sullen sky, 

And the dark da3-s, — dull, desolate and drear. 

Who then shall answer to ni}- heart's lone sigh ? 

Or who regret the loss when sick of life I die ? 




MOUNT GILBO. 

HOULDST thou e'er visit Mount Gilbo, 
Fail not at early morn to go, 
When the crimson Orient spreads a glow 
O'er the mountain's ancient robe of snow- 
When flash the long, vSwift lines of light 
Into the vallej-s that clasp the night, 
And the mists that cover glen and wold 
Roll off like a sea of molten gold. 

High is the peak of Mount Gilbo, 
Robed in a thousand winters' snow, 
Jagged and forked its massive rocks, 
Rent by lightning and thunder shocks — 
Scathed by the tempest's glance of light 
Rushing b^' on the wings of night ; 
Deep are the gorges on its sides, 
Fearful the chasms where gloom abides, 
Where torrents roar and boil and hiss, 
Down in the fathomless, black abj-ss. 

Beautiful glaciers on Mount Gilbo ! 
Beautiful, ay, when the sun's first glow 
Touches their domes and their crystal spires, 
Lighting them up with a thousand fires ; 
Weaving the many hues that form 
The iris-arch on the flying storm 
Into some rare and rich device. 
In each atom of lucent ice. 



MOUNT GILBO. 43 

Not the irradiate lialls that lie 

Far from the ken of mortal ej-e, 

Down in the green depths of the sea, 

Can by half so radiant be, 

Though they be flooded with fairy light. 

Mystical, glorious, dazzling, bright. 

Ever changing, but always fair, 

Shaping to something quaint and rare. 

Now a mosque, with minarets 

Tipt and blazoned with jasper sets. 

Now a temple, lofty and old. 

Fretted with amethyst and gold. 

Again, a forest of burnished spears. 

Brighter as clearer the sun appears. 

Whose scintillant tips like brilliants show 

Over the frozen hills of snow. 

Thus do the glaciers of Mount Gilbo, 

Sparkle and shimmer and flash and glow. 

Till they seem to change in the broad sun's glare 

To phantasies in the frosty air. 

Solemn the night that gathers round 

Those ic}^ heights in the vast profound. 

When the .stars look out from pure blue skies, 

Clearer, brighter and larger in size, 

Down on the peak of old Gilbo, 

Sternly bold in his robe of snow. 

Silently cuts the raven's wing 

Through the cold, cold mountain air, 
As though fearing the Tempest King, 

Who brews the storm and hurricane there. 
In the forest far below. 
From hoar oaks green with mistletoe, 
Hoots the owl and caws the crow, 



44 - MOUNT GILBO. 



And the wail of the woods is long and deep, 

As the winds through countless branches sweep, 

Tossing the tall tops to and fro, 

Very majestically and slow, 

Like the plumes of a craped and bannered train. 

When hearts beat sad for the mighty gone. 
And feet are heav}' that would remain 

Where greatness sleeps in the dust alone. 

Dismal the night when the tempest whines. 
Through the boughs of the stunted pines, 
When ominous voices call aloud 
From caverned rock and sable cloud, 
And the fires of heaven glance and leap 
From crag to crag, and from steep to steep, 
And the solid walls of granite rock. 
As rent by an earthquake's rumbling shock: 
Then the demons of mountain gloom 
Issue forth from each cavern-tomb, 
And horrible shapes and phantoms fly 

On the ragged folds of the raven clouds. 
And ghouls and gnomes go gibbering b}-, 

And the ghosts of the wicked walk in shrouds. 
O God ! 'tis a fearful thing to stay 

Where the avalanche hurls its bolts of snow. 
And thunders sound a reveille 

Amid the passes of Mount Gilbo. 



THE HERMIT OF MOUNT GILBO, 
AND THE ANGEL CONVOY, CHRISTMAS NIGHT. 




Hue snows came down on the mountain 
brown, 
White and soft as the c}"gnet's down ; 
The stunted pines on the shelving steeps 
Bent with the pure and crystal heaps, 
The winds were low, the torrents still. 
The snows lay evenly on the hill, 
And evening shades were coming down 

On valley dark and mountain brown. 
The bells swang joyfull}' to and fro, 
Right jollily and merrily, 
Right laughingl}- and cheerily, 
In the belfr}^ tower of the convent dim, 
Down in the vale that lay below% 
Under the shadow of Mount Gilbo, 

Where the nuns w^ere chanting the Advent Hymn. 
For it was Michaelmas' joyful time, 
The bells were ringing a lively chime, 
When the snows and the evening shades came down 
On the murky vale and the mountain brow^n. 

In a cavern of Mount Gilbo 

Dwelt a hermit, a pious man. 

He was hight ' ' good Hilde Ban ; ' ' 
His gray beard down to his knees did flow. 

His long locks over his shoulders fell. 
Whiter with eld than the mountain snow. 

But his e^'e was l)right as a young gazelle's. 



46 THE HERMIT OF MOUNT GILBO. 

Who he was, or whence he came, 

Of gentle blood or the child of shame. 

None did know, but many a tale 

Was told by the peasants in the vale, 

Of the merciful deeds of Hilde Ban, 

Who was deemed by all a marvelous man. 

Many a year had he dwelt there ; 

His food was the scantiest, coarsest fare. 

And his drink, of the pure and crj-stal rill, 

Leaping to light from the rocky hill. 

His garb was coarse — a flowing coat. 

Made from the hair of the mountain goat, 

Spun and wove in its native hue, 

A sort of mixture of gray and blue. 

Deep in the gloom of his awful cell, 

That suited his mournful ways right well, 

Sat the hermit Christmas eve, 

And heartil}- o'er his sins did grieve, 

Then knelt he down on the cold, damp .stone. 

Very solemnly and alone — 

Before Madonna's statue knelt. 

Muttered his "Av^" o'er and o'er, 
Bowed to the hard and flinty floor. 
And through the darkness feebly felt 
For the silent .stone : and kissed the toe, 
Saying his Aves slow and low. 
While chattered his teeth with the bitter cold, 
And blue were his features shrivelled and old ; 
Counted his beads with numb, thin hands. 
Regularly as the sands 
Through the hour-glass .still}' fall. 
Or the tick of a clock in an antiqiie hall, 
When the rooks in the dead night-watches call 
Clasped he them in his hands so cold, 
So skeleton, bony, .stiff" and old, 
And still his paternosters told. 



THE HERMIT OF MOUNT GILBO. 47 

Then la}- him down on the rocks so bare, 
Where swept the keen and nipping air, 
Where crept the frosts that silently were 
Bus}', bns3' everywhere : 
Clasped his crucifix in pra5'er : 
Lay him down in his mountain cell, 
And deep sleep on his spirit fell — 
Jesu, Marie ! shield him well ! 

In his vision he saw, and lo ! 

His cell with light was all aglow — 

With spectral brill ianc}- aglow ! 

It shimmered and flashed on the frost}' wall, 

Brighter than shines in palace hall. 

When high is the voice of festival ; 

And there was music unutterable : 

The ear might hear — tongue can not tell 

How vSoft on his ravished ear it fell. 

He smiled — how sweet ! in his raptured sleep, 

His skeleton hands the measure keep ; 

And he laughed aloud, did Hilde Ban, 

That grave and pious-hearted man ! 

He laughed aloud, he laughed for jo}-, 

He was never so glad since when a boy ! 

The statue of Madonna shone, 

With a glory from the Father's throne; 

And by his side an angel stood, 

And called him "Hilde Ban the good:" 

He was clad in raiment like to gold, 

Exceedingh' beautiful to behold. 

And a crown of light was on his head ; 
His smile a great approval told 

Of the pious life the hermit led. 
Much was Hilde Ban's surprise. 
And he luimbh' veiled his dazzled eyes, 



48 THE HERMIT OF MOUNT GILBO. 

And he bowed to the presence from the skies. 
His was hoi}' awe and pious fear 
As the angel cried, "What do'st thou here? 
Lo ! Hilde Ban, I have come for thee ! 
Thou hast suffered much, and hast borne it well, 
In sorrow thou no more shalt dwell, 
Thou'st been a brother to th}' kind. 
Hast ser\^ed thy God with heart and mind, 
Come lip with me, come up with me;" 
And hoh- voices loudl}- cried, 
And unseen voices on every side. 
Through all the glorified air replied, 

' ' Come up with me, come up with me. ' ' 
***** 
At dapple dawn the following day, 
A chamois hunter passed that wa}- — 
As rnerr}^ a free-born mountaineer 
As hunted the antelope and deer: 
Joyously sang he his roundelay-, 
As he groped to the hermit's cell his wa}- ; 
For he loved the anchorite old and gray. 
And he brought him food ; but when he found 
The hermit stark on the flint}- ground, 
"God's sooth!" cried he, "he's in a swound ! " 
And a very long breath the hunter drew, 
His brown, plump features softer grew, 
And his eye-lids seemed to drop with dew. 
As kindly he raised the old man's head, 
And found that Hilde Ban was dead ! 
But nothing knew he of the glad, glad sight 

That the hermit saw but y ester-even, 
That made him laugh in his sleep outright, 
When the angels came on Christmas night, 

And bore his pious soul to heaven. 



A WOMAN'S TEAR. 

THINK not that the strength of prayer 

Is breathed alone in words of flame, 
The whirlwind might of eloquence 

When roused bj^ conscious wrong is tanie- 
Is tame when measured by that power, 
Deep, silent, earnest and sincere, 
Which melts the will as wax to flame. 
And voiceless pleads in woman's tear. 




x^-^ 





A POOR MAN'S THANKSGIVING. 



ET him who eats not, think he eats, 
'Tis one to him who last year said, 

" ]My neighbor dines on dainty sweets 
And I on coarser bread." 



He who on sngar angels fares 

Hath pangs beneath his silken vest ; 

The rougher life hath fewer cares — 
Who fasts hath sounder rest. 

If lean the body, light the wings ; 

His fanc}' hath more verge and room, 
Who feasts upon the wind that brings 

The flowers of hope to bloom. 

So, if no smoking turkey grace 

This day ni}- clean but humble board, 

I'll think what might have been ni}- case 
If rich, and thank the Lord. 

No gout awaits my coming age, 
No bulbous nose like lobster red. 

To vex my temper into rage, 
Or fill ni}' da^'s with dread. 

Leave to the rich his roast and wine ; 

Death waits on him who waits for all ; 
The doctor will be there by nine, 

B}^ twelve the priest will call. 

Lord, in all wholesome, moderate wa^-s 
Keep me, lest it should hap me worse ; 

Teach one to fill his mouth with praise 
Who never filled his purse. 



EN MEMOIRE. 



(Amelia B Welky ) 




^V"^*?/?t, 



LOv^E the dim eyes with tenderness- 
her rest 

Is as an infant's, knowing naught of care ; 
Fold the cold arms upon her lilj' breast : 
'Tis well — 'tis well : lay back the long, dark hair, 
And place a rose in its first blushes there. 
'Tis well — 'Tis well : she loved a rose in bloom, 
And life near death looks beautiful and fair — 
There seems a spirit in that rose perfume 
That, like unchanging love, survives be^'ond the tomb. 



Smooth down the pillow softh- — .so — 'tis well. 
And tenderh^ compose her form to sleep : 
Look now — how beautiful ! ye can not tell 
In words the sorrow that in tears ye weep. 
Once more — it is the last fond look ! — how deep, 
How strong the utterance for the loss you moan ! 



54 EN MEMOIRE. 

All's over now! — no more you'll need to keep 
The watch of love and pity ; she is gone 
Forever from your sight, and oh, your heart how lone ! 

But yesterday, and like the rising lark 
She caroled in the glory of her song ; 
Before the coming on of eve, how dark 
Death's .solemn messengers around her throng ! 
You saw the shadows that to graves belong 
Dim the clear lustre of her peaceful eyes ; 
You saw the red hue come and go, and long 
You hoped, until, imloosed life's tender ties, 
She died, as music's strain in the far echo dies. 

For her I weep, though stranger to her thought 
And to her presence, yet to me her strain 
Was an unsullied pleasure, overwrought 
Sometimes by joy's intensity to pain ; 
And though to her my tears are as the rain 
Upon the sterile desert to the rose 
The bulbul sings to — useless, idle, vain — 
Yet must I weep ; for not the least of woes. 
To one who loves a song, is its eternal close. 

Weave me a garland of the asphodel. 
The dark-leaved cypress and the mournful 3'ew, 
Bring hither locust boughs from yonder dell. 
Wall-flowers of scarlet, night-shades palely blue. 
And grave-grown m3'rtle weeping wet with dew. 
The}' do accord with mournfulness, and bear 
A s3-mpathy to sorrow, and renew 
The hope of happiness, and breathe a prayer 
For those who from our sight have gone where angels are. 



EN memoikp:. 55 

Wail low, 5'e winds ; babble, thou thoughtless stream 
To the rose bending o'er thee — what to me 
Or mine art thou? Swift as thy flow the stream 
Of life sweeps onward to eternit}'. 
A moment, and we are no more to be ; 
No record of our names, no tongi^e to tell 
That here I wandered weeping near by thee, 
And bowed my spirit to a stroke that fell 
Upon that better one whose being was a spell. 

A spell of song ; ay, such a spell as charmed 
All passionate ears in Arqua's quiet vale ; 
Or in thy Tuscan la3^s, Bocaccio, warmed 
The magic fervency of many a tale ; 
Or in St. Anna's prison did prevail 
O'er a heart eat with sorrow, till the night 
Of the long solitude began to fail 
In the clear flame of Tasso's fancy's flight, 
Which round those prison walls still sheds a hallowed light. 

Simple and graceful was thy eas}' lay, 
And unpremeditated as the lark's clear note, 
When morning purples on the hill-tops grey. 
Around us still their mingled echoes float 
With a remembered gladness ; and remote. 
In other lands, where'er the Saxon tongue 
Makes itself music, shall the strain thou'st wrote 
Charm all whose hearts to beauty thrill or long 
For inborn melody that shapes itself to song. 



56 



EN MEMOIKE. 



But these, thy groves, thy native hills and vales, 
Where thou, their minstrel, hast enchanted long. 
Shall hallowed be — thy spirit here prevails ! 
Like St. Cecelia, thou didst come in song. 
And hast departed with it, and no wrong 
Hath marred its sweetness : thou wilt be confessed. 
Life's true interpreter, by man}- a tongue 
In after years, when we forgotten rest — 
Amelia of our hearts, sweet songstress of the West. 





OUR COUNTRY'S FLAG. 

\\'V faction assail or oppression invade, 

Let treachery threaten or intrigne divide, 
Neath that banner will freemen draw swiftly the blade. 

And sweep back the foe as weeds swept b}- the tide. 
Wherever those stars shall bespangle the sky 
There will freemen be found to defend them, or die ! 
Shine stars of the Union ! 

Wave flag of the free ! 
The hope of the nations 
Is centered in thee ! 
We swear to defend, b}' the souls of the brave. 
It's honor, wherever that banner shall wave. 

Are the .stars on our banner less brilliant to-day. 

Than when, in the hour of their trial and gloom, 
The heroes we honor they led to the fray. 

To conquer for freedom or hallow her tomb? 
Do we love them the less, as they glitter afar, 
Our herald in peace and our standard in war? 
By the deeds of the valiant, 

The blood of the slain, 
By the rights that we cherish, 
The cause we maintain, 
Their honor we swear, by the souls of the brave, 
To guard well where\'er our banner shall wa\'e ! 




LOVE'S HERALDS. 

OVE'S Mercuries are invisible ; tlie^- come 

And sing, like Ariel, in the enchanted air, 
While we with wonder and delight sit diinib, 
Not knowing how it is, nor whence, nor where ; 
And they, like swans that rest on billowy seas, 

Glide on the gently pulsing melodies. 
While we start — listen — cry in glad surprise 

" 'Tis here!" and the next moment Echo cries, "'tis there! 







&!>\ I 




HEAVEN'S l^VANGEES. 



I lie tenderest flower the soonest dies, 

The sweetest strain seems soonest ended 
The beautiful but tempts our e3es, 
Then, still enticing-, mounts the skies, 
And with the world unseen is blended. 




And so the g^ifts we most approve, 

From heaven sent down, to us are given 
To link our hearts to them in love. 
Which done, they pass from earth above. 
And, thus our hearts are drawn to heaven. 




OSSIAN TO HIS HARP. 

AREWEIvL my harp! In Cona's vale 

Thy treml)ling strings shall wake no more 
The master's skillful fingers fail, 

The minstrel's song is o'er. 
Wild harp of Selma, to thy tone 
No more shall valiant bosoms thrill, 
Nor beauty's sighs thy passion own — 
Neglected — broken — still. 

In Lutha's vale the bard will sleep 

Near rocks where purple thistles bloom, 
And heroes' shades their vigils keep 

Around the minstrel's tomb. 
But thou divinest ! who shall call 

The spirit from thy slumbering strings. 
When o'er thy master's bier the pall 

Its mournful sable flings? 

Companion of my song, thy strain 

To deeds of glory called the brave, 
Or wailed when on the martial plain 

Was heaped the warriors' grave. 
Round thee, enchanter ! ne'er again 

Shall Morven's chieftains throng; 
And Selma's maids will seek in vain 

The magic of m}- song. 



OSSIAN TO HIS HAKP. gj 

Alas ! mv days of son.s: are o'er ; 

The sword hangs idle on the wall, 
The voice of Cona sounds no more 

In Fingal's silent hall. 
By Mora's rock my step shall fail,* 

To heather flowers my head be press'd. 
Nor can the rnde and sounding gale 

Disturb the minstrel's rest. 

Hung on the oak by Mora's stone, 

In mournful muteness thou' It deplore 
The Car-borne Fingal's mighty son, f 

The bard, whose .song is o'er; 
Then, harp of Selma, thou wilt tell 

The winds that oft thy strings shall ti'}-, 
The min.strel's spirit still doth dwell 

In every broken sigh. 

The noble chiefs of future ^-ears 

Shall hear, sweet harp, thj- growing fame. 
And beauty's fairest lips, with tears 

Repeat the minstrel's name. 
Wild harp of Selma, though th}- strings 

Neglected and forgotten lie, 
The spirit of thy song still sings 

In every broken sigh. 



By tlie stone of Mora I shall fall asleep. 
1 The hunter shall come forth in the morning, and the voice of my harp shall be heard no more, 
Where is the son of Car-borne Fingal?" and the tear shall be on his chee\i. — Ossiaf!. 




TELL ME TRUE. 



Now the springing grasses spread 

In the pastures where the flags and willows grow, 
For the tender lambs a bed ; 

And the bob-o-links are there, 

Waking into song the air 
Of the valley in the sunlight all aglow. 



There dainty sweets must be 

The pale anemone, 
There buttercups and crocus tinct with gold 

And roses, wild and rare, 

In the music breathing air 
Blush with secrets love in whispers there has told. 



TELL ME TRUE. 63 



III. 

O, children tell me true, 

Are the skies as bright to you, 
And the wimple of the brook as soft and low. 

As when I, without a care. 

Gathered early cowslips there 
In the splendor of the morning long ago ? 

IV. 

Then lead me by the hand, 
O'er the pleasant, pleasant land. 

Through orchards fair and meadows let us go 
But the hearts that beat with mine 
In the days that seemed divine, 

O, ye dearlings of my soul, ye can not know. 



THE HERO OF THE ARCTIC. 



" Stuart Hollins could not be induced to leave the ship ; his post was at the guns from first to last, 
giving signals; he kept firing at intervals, till the ship vv'cnt down. We saw him in the very act ol' 
firing as the vessel disappeared under the water."- 7'odw's Statement. 



N the quarter deck of the Arctic stood 

The hero bo}-, undaunted, 
Like Faith with her cahn heart unsubdued, 

And her angel face enchanted, 
While stout hearts quailed and wildly rose 




The tempest of commotion, 
The brave boy gave the signal guns 
To the mistv waste of ocean. 



Despair and the phantom terrors round 

The masts and spars are flying. 
While wildly sweep o'ei the surging waves 

The shrieks of the lost and dying. 
But hark ! though the death pall hangs above 

And the grave is yawning under, 
The signal gun through the mist\' gloom 

Still speaks in tones of thunder. 



Then the craven fled, and the timid wept. 
And prayers to heaven were given. 

As the foaming waters round them closed. 
And the iron ribs were riven. 



TIIF. HKRO OF THE ARCTIC. 



65 



But lo ! the dun clouds glow and glare — 

The masts are wiklly reeling, 
The signal blaze the calm pale form 

Of the hero bo}- revealing. 

IV. 

Slow sinks the gallant ship ; the sea 

Her green waves o'er her meeting ; 
And the hearts that thrilled to love and fear 

Forgot the woe of beating. 
But hark ! the signal gun once more ! — 

And the clouds repeat the story — 
Brave boy I that halo light to death 

Was thv halo light to glor\-. 




tw.<i?if*t^*»* 



WHY MOURN. O FRIEND? 

HV mourn, O friend, or grief-grown fillets wear? 

Since those we love have fallen bv the way. 
For them no more life's weary round of care. 

Its nights of sorrow, or its strifes bv da^-. 



The morn saw one depart, and one the eve, 

But ere the}- faded from our sorrowing view^ 
Saw ye not from their eyes death's shadow leave, 
And Beulah's nightless glories beaming throuafh. 






MAKE IT FOUR, YER HONOR. 

AvS }t iver in coort av a morniii' 

Whin the shiveriii' craythers come 
Like bastes, from their iron cages, 

To be tould their guilt an' doom? 
Some av thim bould an' brazen, 
Some av thim broke wid care, 
vSome av them wildly wapin', 
Or sullen wid black devSpair. 

O it's a sight inthireh'- 

To take the heart away ! 
The pitiful little childer, 

The ould ones dirthy an gre}- — 
Crouchin' along the binches, 

Tuckin' their rags about 
To hide the sorrow that's in thim, 

And kape the covildness out. 



The Joodge sits up above thim, 

The coort' s own officers ; 
Pol ace wid their long shillah-s, 

Xate in their coats and stars ; 
Witnisses, too, a plint}- : 

Shysters to worry an' bite ; 
And hangin' about the railin' 

The divil's own crew for fioht. 



MAKE IT FOUR, YER HONOR. 

Nine av the clock is sthrikiii' 

Whin the clerk begins to rade, 
And prisintly his Honer 

Says to the coort "Procade." 
Thin up the}- call ould Mary ; 

An' trimblin' there she stands — 
The combs forgotten that smoothed her hair 

And the soap that scoured her hands. 

Larry, my boy, where are ye 

Tliat came from ould Gahvay, 
An' brought in yer arms a darlin'. 

The swatest that crossed the say? 
There wasn't the likes for beauty 

By silver Shannon set 
Since the sun first shone in heaven, 

And the grass wid dew was wet. 

Could ye see her now, all faded. 

In her rags, an' sin, an' shame. 
Your heart it would break wid sorrow 

For the girl that bore \our name : 
Yer heart it would break for thinkin' 

Av the proud day ye was wed— 
Ah ! better the silence av the grave. 

And the darkness av the dead 

Thin up spakes the Joodge, an' says he, 

"Mary, ye've been here 
How man}- times, can 3e tell me, 

vSince it was the last New Year? 
Ye' re scarcely quit av the prisin. 

And here ye are to-day 
For sthalin', sa3-s the witness: 

Now what have ve to sav?" 



MAKE IT FOUR, VKK MONOK. 

Sliakin' lier grey hairs backward 

Out of her eyes and face : 
"It's thrue that ye say, yer Iloner. 

It's thrue is my disgrace. 
It wasn't the coat I cared for; 

It's stharvin I was to ate, 
And I want a friendly shilter 

Out av a friendless sthrate. 

"vSind nie back to the prisin, 

For the winter it is could, 
An' there isn't a heart that's warniin' 

For the likes av me that's ould ; 
There isn't a heart that's warmin", 

Nor a hand that takes me in — 
If I stliale to kape from stharvin' 

May God forgive the sin!" 

Then kindl}- spakes his Honer : 

"Well, Mary, will it do 
If I sind ye to the prisin 

For jist a month or two?" 
"The prisin's a friend," says IMarv ; 

"I fear the winter more — 
An it's all the same, ^-er Honer, 

Ye' 11 plaze to make it four." 




thp: brown chickadee. 



A FABLE. 




N the top of an oak sat a brown chickadee ; 
It seemed but a speck for the height of the tree ; 
y And it chirruped and twittered, till straightway it saw 



Through the green leaves the forms of a dove and a daw. 

Then it fluttered its wings, and it puffed out its breast. 

And the feathers stood up from its tail to its crest — 

"The impertinent jades!" in its anger it cried, 

"Do they think that with them this fine tree I'll divide? 

The}' shall see I know how to resent, though I'm small, 

And a tree good for one will not do for us all." 

vSo he hopped from his perch, did the brown chickadee, 

And left them alone on a liml) of the tree — 

All unconscious the dove, and ni}- story grows sad. 

For the daw never dreamed that the titmouse was mad ! 



MORAL. 



If angered by what others do, and would show it, 
Be sure that you act so the others will know it. 



THE TWO MARINERS. 



OLUMBUS gave a world to light; 
Found tropic isles in tropic seas, 
Where spicewinds, wafting melodies 
From gorgeous groves of orange trees, 
Thrilled the pleased senses with delight. 
Nor sooner he these prizes gains 
Than ingfrates send him back in chains. 




In thee, sweet one, m\- venturous heart^ 
A mariner o'er untried seas — 
Found isles of calm and joy and ease, 
More glorious than the Cyclades — 

New words in which it claimed a part ; 

Yet thence, where such enchantment reigns, 

Thou'st sent the wanderer back in chains. 




THE EMIGRANT'S INVITATION. 

ILL 3'ou come to the land where the song of the lark 
Ls heard in the woodland from morning till dark ; 
Where the violets open their tender blue e3-es 
To the zepli3-rs of spring and the warmth of the skies ; 
Where the prairies are laden with honey-lipped flowers. 
More fragrant than blossom in Ottoman bowers? 

Will \'on come to that I^and ? 
Then with me, love, awa}', like a bird to its nest, 
To the empire of freedom, the West, ho! the West! 

There the hunter his carol awakens at dawn. 

And the blast of his bugle arouses the fawn. 

While the clattering hoof, and the echoing gun. 

Announce to his comrades, the chase is begun ! 

Ho ! to sweep like the wild horse the dew-beaded plain, 

With a heart like 3'our swift steed, tmcurbed bj' a rein. 

Will \'ou come to that Land ! 
Then with me, love, awa\^ like a bird to its nest. 
To the home of the free in the West, ho ! the West ! 

'Tis a land of broad empires, whose bounds shall enfold 
Full seedtimes of promise, rich harvests of gold. 
Where from valley- to mountain, from river to sea. 
Shall ascend the hosannas, the .songs of the free ; 
Where the exiles of nations, the children of toil. 
Shall be lords of themselves and the kings of the soil ! 

Will you come to that Land ? 
Then awa}^ love, awa}', where the sun sinks to rest. 
O'er the empire of freemen, the West, ho ! the West ! 




FROM THEIR SERENE ABODES. 



ROM their serene abodes how cahu and still 
Tlie everlasting .stars look down, 

So shone they on Judea's sacred hill 
Ere Israel's royal minstrel wore the crown. 



There flames Arctiirus, and Orion there 

And Ariadne on her milk}- throne 
As when from Belas' height the Coptic seer 

Proclaimed thy destiny, O Babylon ! 

Through the gigantic ages, as with spears 

Tipt with quick beams of unextinguished light, 

Fat reaching the_v, through all the circling years 
Have smote the mantle of chaotic night. 

The wise, the good, the manU' and the fair — 
Youth fre.sh in life, and age its vigor o'er — 

Have gazed upon thee shining ever there — 
Have gazed and vanished, to return no more. 

Each with his little world of hope and fears, 
His dear ambitions and his favorite schemes, 

Hath wrought expectant through the round of years, 
And passed to rest within the land of dreams. 

A gentle slumber falling like the air. 
When twilight shades the dewy valle>'S keep, 

Hath passed on all, and sweetlv wooed from care, 
To lap the weary in the arms of sleep. 



76 



FROM THEIR SERENE ABODES. 



There in the vale, or yonder on the plain, 
They laid aside their cares o'er those to weep 

Who, gone before, had rent time's veil in twain, 
Then all their woes forgot, themselves to sleep. 

So pilgrims struggling o'er some storm-vexed height 
To sunny vales their heav}- steps incline, 

Pause at the base, where slumbrous airs invite. 
Fold their tired arms, and all their toils resign. 





THE MORNING PRAYER. 



HESE rusty steel spectacles — there is the case — 
Bring back to my mind a much faded old face, 
And the Elder once more, seated solemnly there, 
IMakes ready to sanctify breakfast with prayer. 



How fresh is the landscape, how cool and how still, 
i With shade in the valley and sun on the hill, 
The cattle in pasture, the sheep near the fold. 
And meadows with buttercups blazing like gold. 

Through the rose-latticed window that looks to the east. 
The sunbeams dance brightly like lambs at a feast. 
And flash from old pewters that came o'er the sea, 
Ere Boston rose up against tyrants and tea. 

What fragrance the glowing tin coffee-pot spreads. 
As it simmers and sings to us snug in our beds. 
While the boiling potatoes bump round in the pot, 
And the pan of brown biscuits stands read\- and hot. 

There's Tab on the hearth rug, and Tray at the door. 
Keeping watch lest the chickens come tracking the floor, 
While Aunty the anxious, makes vocal the air. 
To hasten us children to breakfast and prayer. 

Dear Aunt ! can I ever forget that rare shelf 
With its candlesticks, snuffers, blue china and delf. 
Dried peppermint, saffron, sage, senna and squills. 
All ready to conquer colds, colics and chills ! 



78 THE MOKNINC. PKAYHK. 

No wonder tin- kind face grew withered and thin 
Thinking how we might perish in childhood and sin, 
For there stood the apple-tree close In- the wall 
To tempt ns like Adam to eat and to fall. 

At last we are ready ; two chubb}--cheeked bo3-s 
Most happy when raising a whirlwind of noise ; 
Two girls in whose eyes is the glow of the sun 
As they brighten with laughter and sparkle with fun. 

Now seated and still on our chip-bottomed chairs, 
The Ivlder invites us to join him in prayers, 
And reading a portion of Scripture, we kneel, 
While he pours oiit his soul in a fervent appeal. 

Then nj) we glance softh', two 1)o\'S russet brown, 
And sisters as fair as a ])eacli in its down. 
With a grace like a saint's in its sweetest repose 
With dim])les as deep as the heart of a rose. 




PHILO IS DEAD. 

HILO is dead ! the gay, the gentle boy— 
The valley's glory— Philo is no more. 
Of limb elastic as the tempered bow, 
He bounded o'er the hills, when first the sun 
Shot crimson arrows up the flecking east: 
From sweetly clovered steeps, kissed by first dews, 
He called up airiest echoes from dusk vales, 
Where yet the sturdy ox and lactant kine 
Herded and dozed beside the gnarled oaks. 
Those hills shall see him never, never more ; 
The cliffs that answered to his merry call 
Bare their brown fronts in silence to the winds 
That round them grieve and whisper sighing low. 

vSpring brings return of beauty ; to the woods 

Buds, leaves, and lichens tender ; to the vale 

Flowers, wandering vines, and verdure thickly strewn, 

To the brier the rose, and to the thorn the flower; 

To earth in all her recesses of light and shade. 

The joy of sunshine and the mellow rain. 

But not to me can she restore the joy 

That with her presence faded : on his brow 

Shone like a star the effluence of life 

That made more radiant than the sun, than birds 

More musical, than flowers more fair. 

The wintriest gloom, or day tempestuous. 

Listless I wander through the paths he trod : 

There is the mossy knoll that oft received 

The precious burden ; there the tree he nursed. 

Yonder the rose he tended, and its buds plucked off 

In playful mood, so daintih' to tip 

The dancing tendrils of his golden hair. 



So PHILO IS DEAD. 

Wrap me, O memory, in dreams ; dissolve 

In visions all that lies so dark between 

The idle present and the happy past. 

Feed me of old delights, O, fanc}' ! fill 

Each avenue of sense with nectared bliss 

That time has hoarded from my heart bereft. 

And like the witch of Endor, call thou up 

Him round whose brow the rainbow of my hope 

O'erarched the coming years so radiantl}'. 

I watch — I call — "Philo!" the bosky dells 

Echo and oft repeat the name — the hills 

In lingering sweetness answer and reply. 

Alas! he comes not. "Wherefore thus deceive 

Thy heart," says Reason, "onh- to make sharp 

The cruel griefs that sting afresh th}- love.?" 

Will he not answer then? shall I no more 

In shady nooks and sunn}- dells espy 

The vision of his beauty.? Here oft his feet, 

White as the lilies in the dimpled lake, 

Shook from the bells of golden throated flowers. 

The purest pearls that ever night fa3's dropt 

From tinted shells in aromatic cups. 

Or like an alabaster peeped from out 

The fresh green grass and pensive violet. 

Ah ! when the spring shall blush in all the vales 

And dandelions star the hills with gold ; 

When in the coverts and the budding dells. 

The fiery wild rose and the star flower blue, 

The fragrant pea and crocus laid with gold. 

Shall blossom and grow pale, he will return 

In all the years no more. Philo is dead ! 

O, mourn, deserted hills, mourn Philo dead ! 

O, mourn, untrodden paths, mourn Philo dead! 

O, mourn, unvocal vales, mourn Philo dead ! 




HER RECORD. 

[OW she is gone, most gentle of her kind, 

The lesson of her life who reads, ma}- still 
Learn of the triumphs of th' impelling will, 
The victories of the nnconqnerable mind 
Over the weakness of much human ill. 
For so it was, though fragile as a flower, 
You might discern the unbaffled spirit's power, 
Warding the blows that lesser natures kill. 
The days she numbered by the deeds each hour 
Completed saw ; and through her busy hands 
There slept no atom of time's sliding sands 
Unused. Wife, mother, friend ! thro' sun and shower, 
She plucked from many hearts the thorns of care, 
And left the rose of peace to blossom there. 




SLEIGH-RIDE SONG. 

jERRIIvY ho ! away we go, 
Over the fields of frozen snow, 
lyighth' we laugh, and lightly we sing, 
For Winter is ]olh-, and Winter is king. 
Then ho, ho, ho ! then ha, ha, ha ! 
Leave sober faces to churls, heigh, ho ! 
Was ever delight 
Like a frost}' night, 
And a sleigh full of laughing girls, heigh ho ! 

Merrily ho ! how fleet we go, 

Swift as the reindeer over the snow, 

Jingling bells may tinkle and ring, 

For somebody's joll\^ and somebody'll sing. 

Then ho, ho, ho ! then ha, ha, ha ! 
Leave sober faces to churls, heigh, ho! 

There's no delight 

Like a frosty night, 
And a .sleigh full of laughing girls, heigh, ho! 



WAITING. 



"And the grasshopper shall be a burden, and desire 
shall fail : because man goeth to his long home." 




?EATH is better than life, 
Atul sleep is sweeter than waking". 
vSweeter is sleep than conscions 
Ivinking of sorrow to sorrow, 
Leaness of spirit to body. 
The frame thereof sorely .shaking, 
Smitten by pain to-day 
And shattered by grief to-morrow. 

Of this alone are we certain : 
The shrond is woven to wind iis. 

The mattock and worm are eager. 
The hearse and the mourners waiting, 
Matters it, then, what time 
We go to the honses assigned ns ? 
Let us be ready to face 
Our fate without hesitating. 



84 WAITING. 



We might endure did we know 
There were anything lasting or real 
In love or pleasure or fame, 
In fortune, dominion or glory ; 
The}' are but shadows of shadows, 
The shapes of a splendid ideal. 

That shine in the light of romance. 
And live in the pages of story. 

Death is better than life, 
And sweeter is rest than sighing. 
Sweeter is rest than care 
And getting of gold with sorrow. 
And wisdom that seemeth folly. 
With death from the house-top crying, 
"That which is thine to-day 
Mine shall it be to-morrow." 

Vex not our ears with babble 

Of increase of years and of riches. 

Corn and oil for plenty. 

And wine for gladness red, 
Fruits and the fatness of seasons : 
A voice from the darkness preaches, 

"These are for the living, 

But 3'e are for the dead." 

Vex not our thoughts with delights 
Of treasure of gold and fair raiment, 
Lights like the light of the sun. 
In houses of dancers and singers. 
Where love unto love makes answer. 
And heart unto heart makes payment, 
Coinage of rose-red kisses 
And toj'ings of passionate fingers. 



WAITING. S:; 

Death is better than life, 

And sweeter is peace than striving. 

Sweeter the valley in shadow 

Than wind-blown hills in splendor. 
We are weary of labor, 
Weary of long contriving, 

The flesh faints under its burdens, 

The soul cries out, surrender. 

Into our hearts there enter 
Neither the lights of morning, 

Neither glad voices of spring time. 

Neither the heats of summer ; 
Only the shadows of evening, 
Only sad voices of warning, 

Only the frostS of winter. 

That make numb senses num'er. 

Out of our lives are taken 
Hopes of impossible things : 

The noise of the praise of the people 

And triumphs for deeds that are done ; 
Wealth of the fields and the rivers 
Wrought in the splendor of kings. 

And a name of all names to be spoken 

In lands of the snow and the sun. 

Death is better than life. 

The reaping of grain than the sowing. 

Sweeter the folding of hands 

Than strength and the labor before us. 
Why should we toil as one 
For whom fresh seasons are blowing, 

When the sands slip under our feet 

And the heavens darken o'er us ? 



S6 WAITING. 



One there is who builds, 

And his bnilding is not shaken, 
Neither by roar of tempests. 
Nor roll of the thunder of drums ; 

Oul\- the trumpet of God 

The dwellers therein shall waken, 

When the wrath of His wrath is kindled 
And the da3' of His judgment comes. 

With the peace that is before 
And the pain that is behind us, 

Knowing" the folly of living, 

The sorrow that comes of waiting, 
It can not matter how soon 
We go to the houses assigned us. 

For we are ready to face 

Our fate without hesitating. 





t:^^:s^' 



sfi> 



^\^A 



IN rp:membrance. 



J. p., I'EB. II, 187S 




F onl\- she were here, who knew 
The secret paths of fields and woods. 
And where the earliest wild flowers through 



Cool mosses push their daintj' hoods ; 
Whose voice was like a mother's call 

To them, and bade them wake and rise. 
And mark the morning's splendors fall 

In mists of pearl from tender skies: — 



If onl\- she were here, to see 

The landscape freshening hour by hour. 
And watch in favorite plant and tree 

The bud unfold in leaf and flower : 
To welcome back from sunny lands 

The bluebirds that have tarried long. 
Or feed with her own loving hands 

The bright, red-breasted prince of song : — 



88 IN REMEMBRANCE. 

If, brightening down th' accustomed walk, 

She came to welcome friend and guest. 
To share our light, unstudied talk. 

And sparkle at the rising jest ; 
Or, leading on to nobler themes, 

In art and science play the sage, 
And rapt, as in prophetic dreams, 

Foretell the wonders of the age : — 

Could she return, as now the spring 

Returns in robes of green and gold, 
When love and song are on the wing, 

And hearts forget that the}- are old — 
How bright were all the da3-s ! how fair 

This miracle of life would be ! 
Whose pulsings thrill the glowing air 

And cjuicken over land and sea. 

And shall we doubt thy presence here, 

Spirit of light, because our eyes. 
Veiled in this earthly atmosphere. 

See not the heaven that near us lies? 
More living thou than we. who stand 

Within the shadow of the j-ears. 
Whose glimpses of a better land 

Are caught through eyelids wet with tears 

And so in hope we wait, and see 

The springs retiirn and summers go 
That bring us nearer unto thee. 

Who art beside us, since we know- 
Whatever range thy flight may take. 

Its steps thou surely wilt retrace — 
Love binds with cords death can not break. 

And draws thee from the realms of space! 



SPIRITUS SYLVAE 



Immortalia ne speres, monet annus, tt almum 
Quae rapit hora diem.— /iorac^. 

Nature finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, 
Sermons in stones, and good in every Ihins.—S/ia^s. 







?HERE are m\ isiljle spirits in the air I 
'1 hc^ walk the earth with lis, and minister, 
^ In onr communion with the visil)le, 

To our immortal utterance. In the mute, 
'^ Impressive language of the natural world — 
In flower and leaf, and in the flow of streams. 
In the deep shadows of primeval groves, 
In tilt eternal silence of the hills, 
^1^ In tlimge of seasons and the flight of years, 
Ihc\ speak in eloquence to our inner sense 
Of a nn sterious Dcstin}-, that rules, 
^ Dnccts dccices and stamps material forms, 
\nd yiossei bcinu with the seal of death ; 
V^'-^-'W'' yet, out of desolation shadows forth 
, i^f' The gloiious mtaning of that principle, 

i ) Which gives to life desire, and longing thought, 
' Pra3-er, faith and hope — oi'R immortality ! 



90 SPIRITUS SYLVAE. 

In these lone paths, eternal twilight round ns, 

Oh, thou, beginner of existence ; thou, 

Whose bosom with the restless ardor glows 

Of untried expectation ; thou, whose life 

Hath mournful garb ripon it, and whose heart, 

Grown weary of its burden, for support 

Leans on the staff of Faith — companion, friend. 

Youth, manhood, and e'en thou, whose foot-falls reach 

The ver\- threshold of Eternity — 

Together let us walk, together talk, 

And 'neath the solemn arches of these boughs. 

That twine, like friendship, in each other's arms, 

List to the teachings of the friendly voice 

Of the pervading Influence, that doth dwell 

Near these dark rocks, by yonder babbling stream, 

And in tli' uncertain recesses be3'ond. 

How silent, how profound! hush'd — solemn — dim. 

Except the whispering of a million leaves 

Stirred bj' the wandering winds, or distant dash 

Of rock-born fountains ; or, less audible, 

The rustling of sere leaves, that, from the boughs 

Slowly descending, heap the j'ellow earth. 

All else is still. Like stoic sentinels, 

Mo.ss-trunk'd and sinewy-limb'd, gnarl'd, rough and crook'd. 

Spreading their century's growth to the blue heaven, 

Guarding this solemn place, the old oaks stand. 

Yonder the delicate aspen, quivering leaved ; 

The generous-bearing walnut, and the beech ; 

The rub3--beaded thorn, and sturdy pine. 

Green as affection, and as love enduring. 

Weave, with out-spreading boughs a sacred shade. 

vStay now ; and rest thee in this favorite spot, 
vSequestered from the gaze of man ; and here. 
Beneath the awning of the maple's boughs. 



SPIKITUS SVLVAE. 93 

On this cool moss-bank, wliicli o'erlooks the stream, 

Sit thee awhile, and drink the influence 

Of lovely Nature in her lone retreats. 

vSee, through the net-work of white clouds, the stars. 

The pure intelligence of Heaven, look down. 

And guide thy thoughts to grandeur : Through the lea\es 

The night-winds rustle, with a sweet, low sound. 

Like spirit-music, such as we have heard 

When silver-slippered Fanc\' tuned her harp 

To serial numbers in the Hall of Dreams, 

And Love and Hope, and childhood's blessing, Joy, 

Danced to the melod\-. The ferns and grass 

Bend with their load of night dew, and the fount, 

That ripples at our feet, tinkles a song 

Upon the pebbles, soft as the far chime 

Of vesper church-bells trembling in the air. 

Be silent ; for the vSpirit of these groves. 

The solemn teacher of our natural faith. 

Through visible symbols to thy heart doth speak 

Of life, of death and Immortalit}- : — 

"A few short 3'ears, and thou, and thine, and all 

Who claim thy recollection, will go down. 

With all the unremembered of the past — 

King, prince and peasant ; noble, good and vile ; 

The servant and his master; serf and lord. 

Who sleep an equal slumber in the grave — 

To be forgotten — to a silent home ; 

A realm of shades uncevtain, and a night, 

Eternal in its darkness, where the form. 

The palpable essence of your two-fold life, 

In still corruption shall resolve to dust. 

And give to Nature what it gathered thence. 

There, neither joy. nor the tumultuous bliss 

Of o'erwrought exi)ectation ; nor the fear 



94 SI'IKITUS SVLVAK. 

Of suffering- ; nor the pang of pain or grief; 
Nor disappointment's bitterness are known, 
But a pervading peace — a sleep, a rest, 
Distiirbed by nothing — quietude unbroken. 
"To thee, the generations yet unborn, 
Tlie ]jusy world, and all who do inherit 
Or earth, or sea, or air, shall surely move, 
Silent as shades that mingle with the night. 
And enter with thee the abode of rest. 
The records of the past, the lore of mind. 
Distinction, grade, the monuments of art, 
The wealth, the power, the drama of a world, 
Shall be enveloped in that night of sleep. 
Ay, all that was of matter, or shall be, 
All the material universe, the form. 
The substance of all being shall be lost — 
Without a trace of likeness passed awaj', 
Like sunbeams on the waste of Ocean's waves. 
Lost in infinity of gloom. O night ! 
Unending, jo3-less, dreamless night of Peace ! 

" Life hath a two-fold form — that which connects 

iNIaterial essence with immortal part. 

And that of spirit only ; but the first, 

As doth the natural world, grows to deca}'. 

The bud of being in its germ contains 

The elements of its destruction ; 

And all who breathe, with the first breath they draw, 

Inhale a poison which makes, death their doom. 

Yet fear thou not the sure approach of death ; 

It is no ' King of Terrors ; ' fear thou not. 

Death hath no shape; it is a formless thing; 

The absence of the principle of life ; 

A blank, a void, which thought can not conceive. 

It ends the mystery of life, and solves 



SPIRITUS SVLVAE. 95 

The problem of existence. It is yoii 

Who clothe it with unsightly forms and shapes, 

And in imagination give a birth 

To such creations as are bred in fear, 

And nourished in the reveries of gloom. 

"Behold! the hand of Destiny is here! 

Yon mighty oak, Methuselah in years, 

Torn by the fur}' of the elements. 

The victim of a thousand unseen foes, 

A fallen monarch, rotteth back to dust. 

Its strong heart jnelding to a slow decay. 

The million leaves that 3'ester-morn were green, 

Rejoicing in the sunlight and the breeze, 

Beneath thy feet, like hopes in manhood, lie. 

Scattered and withered, sere and desolate. 

The flowers that blossomed by yon babbling brook, 

That blushed in fragrance to the bli:e of Heaven, 

And made delightful all the odorous air. 

Faded and hurried to the dust of earth ; 

But from their stems the germs of life dropped down, 

Which, when the spring her vesture shall put on, 

And the life-giving INIonarch of the skies return. 

To heat with ardent breath the senseless mold, 

Shall spring to being ; bud, unfold and fade. 

Yet reproduce their likeness, year by year. 

"This Destiny, death's master, fear thou not; 

For thou. Oh, man, within thy clave}' vestment. 

Hast a perennial germ, which, when the robe 

Is lain aside — when, with material forms 

It sleeps forever — when, with the passing show, 

The trappings and appendages which deck 

The visible and iin.substantial lost. 

In the obscurity of common dust — 

vShat.l bur.st at once into Immortal bloom." 



BEREAVED. 




E walks the earth with downcast e\-es, 
111 which are sorrow and the pain 
That softens in heart-easing rain. 



The tniuult of the busy world, 
Its nois}' strife and toil, he hears ; 
It falls upon unheeding ears. 

For what to him are greed and gain 
Who, mourning like the woodland dove. 
Broods o'er the vacant nest of love? 





THERE COMES A TIME. 

HERE comes a time when we grow old, 

And like a sunset down the sea 
Slope gradual, and the night-winds cold 
Come whispering sad and chillingh ; 
And locks are gray 
As winter's day, 
And eyes of saddest blue behold 
The leaves all weary drift awa}', 
And lips of faded coral say, 
There conies a time when we grow old. 

There comes a time when joyous hearts, 

Which leaped as leaps the laughing main. 
Are dead to all save memory. 

As prisoner in his dungeon chain ; 
And dawn of day. 
Hath passed away. 
The moon hath into darkness rolled, 

And, by the embers wan and gray, 

I hear a voice, in whispers say. 
There comes a time when we grow old. 

There comes a time when manhood's prime 

Is shrouded in the mist of years, 
And beaut}', fading like a dream. 
Hath passed away in silent tears ; 
And then how dark ! 
But oh ! the spark 



9^ THERE COMES A TIAIE. 

That kindled youth to hues of gold, 
Still burns with clear and stead}- ray, 
And fond affections lingering, say — 

There comes a time when we grow old. 

There comes a time when laughing Spring 

And golden Summer cease to he, 
And we put on the Autumn robe, 
To tread the last declivity ; 
But now the slope. 
With rosy Hope, 
Beyond the sunset we behold 
Another dawn, with fairer light. 
While watchers whisper through the night- 
There comes a time when we grow old. 




THE RURAL EDITOR. 

OME thou, who taught'st me by the cooling spring, 
'Mid pleasant airs and sylvan shades to sing. 
Where oft my youthful footsteeps idly strayed, 
And numbers rude to ruder songs essayed. 
— Alas ! in vain I call upon the Muse, 

Entreat, invoke — now flatter, now abuse ; 

Like Baal's stupid gods who wouldn't "peep," 

The ancient virgin must be fast asleep. 

In hopeful mood I asked her to inspire 

My awkward fingers and unsounded lyre, 

And loan a coal from her celestial fire. 

She cut me short, and "Poetry," said she, 

"Hath its own pure, peculiar pedigree; 

It comes, like measles, in a perfect flood; 

And, like the measles, runs in certain blood!" 

Thus much 'tis proper I should here confess, 
Nor claim a talent I do not possess. 
You do not look for snows in tropic lands. 
Nor flowers nor fruits in wastes of scorching sands, 
Much less expect poetic thoughts and views 
From one by you anointed — not the Muse ; 
No Harris I, who sings whate'er he feels. 
With all the Muses flocking at his heels. 
Who never asks, and gets uncertain sums. 
Nor churns for butter, but the butter comes ; 
No Dodge, to improvise for you a song — 



THE RURAL EDITOR. 

He finds words ready as he goes along-, 
And like the Pike's Peak miners— as 'tis told— 
From every common clod kicks out the gold. 
Yet, since the task is mine for you to rhyme. 
This first— I trust the lasi and only time- 
Like Job, who sang his own afflictions best. 
And found experience gave uncommon zest, 
Be you indulgent, dull though I may seem, 
And be the Rural Editor my theme. 

Unhappy wight ! illusion fills his days 
Who thinks the occupation ever pays • 
And thrice unhappy, who, in quest of fame. 
From "rags and lampblack" thinks to earn a name. 
He hopes, perhaps, illustrious to shine, 
A meteor in the editorial line ; 
New themes to broach, new projects to advance, 
And lead the startled world a dizzy dance; 
Perchance to wake, and find himself mistaken, 

When unpropitious hour ! — he sighs to see 
His last great "leader" wrap the grocer's bacon, 

Or folded round his favorite Bohea. 
Fame ! if he seeks it, let him volunteer. 

Join Brigham's Saints, or Walker's ragged force, 

Or, what is surer, sue for a divorce, 
And run the gauntlet of a gazetteer. 
He'd stand a chance at lea.st of notoriety, 
In all the circles of our best society. 
Find a bad life served up quite newspaporial, 
With a worse picture, in the next pictorial. 

Once on a time — so run all tale prefaces — 
(I make no mention here of dates or places,) 
I knew an Editor — 'twas long ago. 
Before the art was bless' d bv steam or HoE, 



THE RURAL EDITOR. 

\\'lien printers dined on unsubstantial fare, 

And nursed their hopes on whispers from the air, 

(irew rich on poverty, and stuff' d their clay 

On air\' nothings — promises to pay. 

Well, as I said, I knew him — a rare fellow, 

Who kept his own and other's natures mellow ; 

One of those social souls we all enjoy. 

Who hold in age the freshness of the boy. 

His bright philosoph}- could brook no fears, 

For he was cheerful as a lad at taw, 
And would be, though the world were drowned in tears 

(O'er a mint julep) happy with a "straw." 
He was ambitious, too — I can't say wise. 
And though not prudent, full of enterprise ; 
For 'twas no show of wisdom, you'll confess, 
In those sad days to calculate success 
From doubtful profits of a country press. 
But then he purchased one, with type and cases. 
Some ancient racks and stands, and rules and chases, 
(They were all second-hand, 'tis well to mention, 
And had seen service worthy of a pension,) 
And with this outfit, in a rural town. 
To life's stern toil he bravely settled down. 

Forth came his paper, neatly launched and freighted. 
And when it came, the village was elated ; 
Ignoring party, in a party sense, 
Avoiding all that might excite offense, 
It praised the town, its prospects, its advances, 
Its enterprise, resources and finances ; 
It praised the schools, the teachers so profound, 
lentil their fame was known for miles around : 
It praised the village parson's eloqiience, 
His mode.st bearing, lack of all pretense ; 
But most his learning- and his solid sense : 



THE RURAL EDITOR. 

So it fell out, between the spring and fall, 
That worthy from the city had a call, 
With such an offer for his preached word, 
That he felt sure that call was from the Lord ; 
It praised the doctors as uncommon skill'd, 

Adding with great suaviter and grace, 
Their treatment cured more people than it kill'd ; 
It spoke — and of its truth some doubts will spring — 
Of honest lawyers — an uncommon thing — 

Who had a conscience — an uncommon case. 
In short, it praised so well, that people grew 
To think that praise was merited and due ; 
It was his fault, and grew from an excess 
Of aim to please and profit — nothing less; 
And had he been to self but half the friend 
He was to others, he had met an end 
That you might safely aim at and commend. 

His influence was felt — the town's fair fame. 
With all who read his paper, found a name ; 
The city pleasurists resorted there, 
Enjoyed its quiet and its healthy air ; 
The arti.sts came, and sketched such charming scenes 
That they were sought to grace the magazines ; 
And thither too, came men of enterprise — 
Blocks rose on blocks, and mills and factories, 
Hotels palatial, and stores that vied 
With those on Broadway, or along Cheapside. 
In brief the town, that ere the printer came. 
Had scarce "a local habitation or a name," 
As though 'twere touched b}' magic, grew to be 
An inland city — but how flourished he.-^ 



THE RURAL EDITOR. 



103 



Come with me, up three flight.s of stairs, and there, 
In dingy daylight and lead-poisoned air. 
Beside his desk he sits, his hair has grown 
Gray with the flecks that time and care have sown ; 




Around him lie exchanges, scraps and clippings, 
Half written leaders, locals, puffs and sippings 
Of Pimch-y humor; manuscripts rejected, 
From geniuses who think themselves neglected; 
Obituary verses, full of gloom, 
And doleful voices from a doleful tomb; 
"Lines to a Lady," from a Mister Dash, 
Who's desp'rately in love with — his moustache; 
A sentimental song about sea-shells. 

Writ b}^ a moping, melancholy she. 
Who would be married, though her face yet smells 

Of bread-and-butter and the nursery; 



I04 THE RURAL EDITOR. 

An eulogy- on General Blank's oration, 
Delivered off-hand at the late ovation, 
And which snggests, by way of mere reflection, 
He shonld be honored with a re-election; 
Modest reqnests, which hope he'll not refuse 
To notice this or that in next week's iVezi's; 
A bunch of bad segars, that some one sends. 

Expecting thrice their value in a local; 
Unopened invitations from his friends. 

Asking his presence at a concert Aocal, 
Or at a lecture, party, hop or ball, 
At such a date (please mention) and such hall; 
Novels and books not worth a decent rating. 

Sent out — the}^ send few others but for cash- 
By eastern firms, who take that way of baiting, 

The countr}' press to advertise their trash; 
In short, an hundred things by men devised 
To get their baubles cheapl}' advertised. 

There, patient toiler ! ever at his work, 
Himself his foreman, publisher and clerk. 
He labored hard — few men had labored harder — ■ 
Grew lean in person, leaner in his larder; 
And still he toiled, from dawn to twilight gray. 
The first of men to court — i/ie last to pay ! 
Some said that he was rich — it might be true. 
Provided that you reckoned what was due; 
But this his dearest friends both said and knew — 
His wants were man}-, but his dimes were few. 
His paper-bills came in, which must be paid, 
So, to delinquents he appealed for aid; 
He would take pork, potatoes, corn or oats, 
Axe-helves or hoop-poles, or, at worst, their notes; 
In short, take anything the}^ had to pay, 
Provided it was brought hy such a da}-. 



THE RURAL EDITOK. I05 

And thus he turned short corners, alwaj's pressed, 

A sad example of Pope's sagest saw, 
"Man never is, but always to be blessed," 

The victim of a fate that knows no law. 
Beset by butchers, b}- his baker teased, 
By creditors besieged, by bailiifs squeezed. 
He yielded slowl}', in the desperate strife, 
His dingy office and his troubled life, 
And gave to quiet earth and modest stones 
His man}' virtues and his aching bones. 
Some generous friends have built a cenotaph 

Of spotless marble o'er the sleeper's dust. 
On which the passer reads this epitaph : 

"here lies a man who died of too much trust!" 



'Tis a plain stor^-, rather roughh- told, 
Of one who trusted others and was "sold;" 
B3' hope allured, in turn b}- fear assailed, 
He gave to credit all he had, and failed. 
The moral you can draw. The Countr}' Press 
Should seek for independence — nothing less. 
Ready to aid the good, sustain the wise. 
Direct and counsel proper enterprise, 
Revealing to the public gaze the way 
Where toil ma}- profit, and where skill will pay, 
Where revenues are reaped and fortunes grown. 
It should be careful to preserve its own. 

The Country Press ! though limited its sphere 
Of influence, demands attention here. 
Where it is free, the people will be free ; 

Where it is pure, the people will be pure ; 
Where shines its light, there liberty shall be ; 

Where it stands firm, there freedom shall endure. 



Io6 THE RURAL EDITOR. 

In the great march of mind it leads the van, 
The guard of public right, the friend of man. 
Though humble toilers, they are not the least 
Who sow the seed and garner for the feast ; 
By little means the noblest ends are gained, 
By small advances victories attained. 
Look to the sea ; from out its wastes arise 
Fair isles of beaut\-, kissed b}' summer skies. 
Mere specks at first, the3' part the rippling seas; 
Bald, barren rocks then rise b\' slow degrees, 
And here extends a shoal, and there an arm, 
Here swells a hill, there sinks a valley- warm : 
Along its beach clings fast the floating weed. 
And spicy winds waft down the feathery seed ; 
To ardent sitns succeed the gentle rains. 
Green grow the hills and flowers adorn the plains ; 
Fair trees spring up to whi.sper with the breeze. 
And fla.shing fountains leap to join the seas. 
Where birds of song with sweetest music come. 
And build their nests and make their happy home. 
And there it stands ! a glory mid the isles. 
Where spring eternal sheds her sweetest smiles ; 
Through centuries its builders toiled to raise 
Another Eden in the later days ; 
A new creation under heaven's dome, 
Where Love might dwell and Virtue find a home. 
Their toil was humble 'neath a surging flood. 
Their aim was noble and the end was good. 

O, humble toilers ! ye who guide the press, 
Though slow the progress, sure will be success. 
Patient in labor, strong in hope ; in faith 
Outreaching time and circumstance and death; 
Be yours the aim. by heaven at first designed, 
To raise to higher ranare of thought the mind; 



THE RURAL EDITOR. 



107 



Building amid the floods of selfish life, 

The storms of passion and the waves of strife, 

A fairer island in each human soul, 

Where Love shall dwell and Virtue have control. 

An Eden blessed, and fairer than the old. 

By poets sung, by prophet lips foretold. 

The home of Innocence, Religion's shrine, 

Where God may reign and Man become divine. 





IN MEMORY. 

HE robin rests its northward wing, 

And twittering in the quickened tree, 
Pipes all its sweetest notes for me — 
The merriest prophet of the spring. 

I knew that it would come once more 

When nights grew short and da3'S were long 
To wake the morning with its song. 

And feed its fledgelings round mv door. 



From all the fields the snows have fled, 
And thro' the grasses gray and sere, 
Peeps the green promise of the year — ■ 

The hope that slumbered with the dead. 

In ever^' nook the crocus springs — 
The dandelions .star the hills. 
And round the golden daftbdils 

I hear the bee's industrious wings. 

O soon the frolic June will come 

And shake her flaunting roses out. 
And woods be gay with song and shout 

And not a voice on earth be dumb. 



Alas ! for those who mourn and stand 
Like watchers by a rainy sea, 
Who wait for what may never be, 

The white sails striving for the land. 



IN MEMORY. 109 



Their prayers are sighs, their vows are tears, 
For sorrow stayeth all the night, 
And sorrow broodeth in the light, 

And casts her shadow tlirouo:h the vears. 



The ash leaf reddens to its fall, 

The nights are long, the days are drear, 
And hastening to its end, the year 

With frost}^ fingers weaves its pall. 

When like a youth in bloom it came, 
And flaunted all its garlands out. 
And woods were filled with .song and shout 

And thorns wore coronals of flame — 

When gladness poured like crusted wine 
From June's delicious beaker, then 
He walked among the sons of men. 

Dear to all hearts, but most to thine. 



A NEW YEAR'S RHYME. 



I. 




^^^^^H live and love and laugh and weep and die; 
The years add nothing to the simple story, 
And what conies after? Neither yon nor I, 
Who stand upon time's jutting promontory 
I And seaward gaze, to watch life's ships go bv, 

Freighted with love, hope, hate, joy, grief and glory 
Can say what shores they visit, or what gales 
Blow prosperous, or tear their shining sails. 



For none return of all that pa.ss the dim 
Horizon, sinking from our saddened sight : 

We hear the rippling keel, the sailor's hymn. 
Exchange the passing hail, the fond good night, 

And watch till in the distance seems to swim 
The signal lamp of love and life and light — 

A very star its twinkling radiance glows. 

Then vanishes — but where? No mortal knows. 



III. 



If thus the bard begins, the occasion pricks his 
Conscience to 't. Death takes a thousand guises : 

Deceitful fevers, troublesome asphyxies. 
Tormenting pangs and horrible surprises. 



A NEW year's rhyme. 



And shapes more hideous still in savage Dixie's 

Blood-sodden fields, where many a soldier lies, his 
Head blown off to satisfy war's licenses 
In one of our most famous reconnoissances. 



Dear are remembered pleasures : — dear the kiss 
That modest love first snatched from lips untainted ; 

Dear boyhood's homes and haunts ; the friends we miss. 
Whose names the marble bears, whose souls are sainted 

But dearer far than these, than all, I wis, 
That rosy fancy e'er illuminated. 

Are thoughts of tender hands and loving eyes 

To the brave soldier in his agonies. 

V. 

What then to him the drum-beat, and the blare 

Of bugles, or th' impetuous shock of war 
When raging armies mingle, and red glare 

The volleying lines, and, like a pestilent star. 
The howling shell bursts through the smoking air. 

And scatters death around him and afar? 
To him alike are friend and foe, who hears 
The battle-clamor ring in dying ears. 

VI. 

No more the light tattoo shall bid him rest, 
And distant bugles lull to slumbers deep ; 

The musket to his side is feebly press'd 

By hands still faithful to the charge they keep: 

And oozing from the calm, heroic breast. 
Life slips away into eternal sleep. 

But O, the death-pang that shall break the hearts 

Of those who love, when such a soul departs ! 



A NEW YEAR S RHYME. 



Come, Peace, with healing on th}- sacred wings, 
Love in thy breast, and promise in thine eyes ; 

To thee the mourning heart exultant springs, 
To thee the fainting soul rejoicing flies. 

Come ! By the blasted hearth no longer sings 
The merry cricket. Bid the cottage rise ; 

Rebuild the hearth ; the wasted lands restore, 

And curl the vines 'round every happy door. 

VIII. 

Under thy gentle reign we'll beat our spears 
To pruning-hooks, our swords to prospering plows ; 

Keep for parades our surplus Brigadiers, 
And thatch their bomb-proof heads with laurel boughs 

Have all contractors shot by volunteers ; 

Hang those who steal more than the law allows ; 

Give Merit office, order Truth a bust, 

And swear to honest incomes — if we must ! 

IX. 

Deliver vis from draft, debt and the devil. 
The tax collector, and the provost guard ; 

On monej'-changers, who refuse to level 
Greenbacks and gold, be thou exceeding hard ; 

In thy great merc^^ take them from this evil. 
Misbegotten world, and great be thy reward ! 

Not, Maid of Olives, that we lu.st for lucre, 

Or cheat at any game ourselves but euchre. 

X. 

For we're indifferent honest — sa^^ the least — 
Stick to our sects, our parties and gregarious 

Professions, whereb\' men are .skinned and fleeced. 
Through arts as wondrous as they're neat and various ; 



A NEW YEAR S RHYME. I13 



We pay our doctor roundlj^ and our priest, 

The one to kill, the other prompt to bury us ; 
And when we can not lodge him unawares, 
We kick the devil down the kitchen stairs. 



We are not as the heathen herd who bend 
The knee to Baal, and live in huts and caves, 

Who, when they have a killing of foe and friend. 
Feed on their flesh to save the expense of graves. 

We pity them afar-off, and we send 
Bibles and missionaries to the knaves, 

To teach them that among lis 'tis as common a 

Thing, — but not so bad if done b}- Jomini. 

XII. 

We keep the ten commandments, and we keep 
The 'leventh also, when our neighbors let us ; 

We doubly love them if their purse be deep, 
And in their testaments they don't forget us ; 

But we can't love the negro, though he steep 
His skin in all the .sweet dews of Hymettus, 

Or own a clam-bank stretch'd — well, for that matter as 

Par's Pass'maquoddy's distant from Cape Hatteras. 



If, therefore, we're afflicted for his sake. 
Hence from our sight, fair Maid of Olives, fly ! 

What can a martyr suffer more than bake. 

Or what a white man more than fight and die? 

Our chance in war another j'ear will take, 
And Richmond also — leastwise, we will try. 

And if with Grant to lead we can't go through it, 

Then never will a Yankee-doodle do it.* 



114 



A NEW year's rhyme. 



XIV. 

The war must end . . . and so must end this verse. 

If 3'ou're the better for it, it is well ; 
If not, thank Heaven there's nothing in it worse. 

Farewell the sandal-shoon, the scallop shell ! 
Vain world adieu !— a blessing or a curse 

Would make no difference ; — and so farewell 
Peace, War, Love, Hatred, Joy and Tears : 
Ye are the wretched substance of the Years. 



^=See Fitz Green Halleck's "Fanny." 





THE FARMER. 

|E dwells among the rugged hills, 
And tills the fertile soil ; 
His hands are hard, his muscles knit 

To manliness, by toil. 
He may not have the easy grace 
That fashion can impart, 
But in his sun-browned face is seen 

The goodness of his heart ; 
And few of those who walk the sod 
Are better noblemen of God. 

Trained up in blamelessness of thought, 

He leads a happy life ; 
His heart is in his peaceful home, 

His ways averse to strife. 
Free as the air that cools his brow, 

He spurns oppression's rod ; 
His rule of life — true love to man. 

Implicit faith in God. 
Hope ever proves his faithful friend. 
And all his acts his life commend. 

Years will depart, and cares increase. 

His form be bowed with age- — 
Yet nought diminish of the man. 

While adding to the sage. 
And they shall say of him, when dead — 

And say without constraint : 
"So bright an ornament to man 

Is canonized a Saint : 
And few who on our earth have trod 
Were better noblemen of God." 



BY THE SEA-SIDE. 




'^'J4W^ 




HE sound of the surf of the sand-making ocean, 
The sails of the ships on the shimmering sea, 
Bring back to my mind the long days of devotion 
I gave b}- the sea-side to love and to thee. 

'Twas homage man pa3\s, and but once, to a woman, 
A love that would forfeit the world for a kiss. 

Ay, and heaven itself, with its joys superhuman. 
To catch from her smile but one moment of bliss. 

How strong was the spell of thy presence ! Da^'s ended 
In weeks, and weeks glided to months of repose ; 

And time — it was measured by sunbeams that blended 
Their light with the dew and the pink of the rose. 



Well, 'tis past ! that wild waltz of the heart, to whose measure 

lyOve's pulses beat madly, till being became 
A thing of too exquisite rapture for pleasure. 

And sharper than hunger, and fiercer than flame. 



BY THE SEASIDE. II7 

I chide thee ! No, no ! Let them bear all the shame of it 
Who chilled thy young heart with an infinite fear ; 

1 forget not, though rashly I gave thee the blame of it. 
That the spoil of a heart was atoned by a tear. 

Like a bride of the East in her splendor the}' made thee. 

With cluster of jewels and cunning of gold ; 
Had they seen in what robes the dark years have arrayed thee, 

Nor wealth would have purchased, nor beauty been sold. 

Men wonshipped, maids envied, as up to the altar, 

Pale wonder of sweetness, they led thee a bride, 
Nor dreamed they who heard thy lips quiver and falter. 

That the flower of thy young life there withered and died. 

And now, like the perfume of roses long faded. 

That vision of loveliness comes from the past. 
But the e3'es that entreated, the lips that upbraided. 

No more shall reproach thee — O, broken at last ! 

Should the sails of these ships by the tempest be shredded. 

The strong ribs be crushed by the sea in its rage. 
The wreck were no greater than thine, who wert wedded. 

To folly in youth and misfortune in age. 

What haunt of the city conceals thy gre}' sorrow? 

Thy children thej^ cry in the streets for their bread ; 
And for thee there remains no bright hope for the morrow, 

But onl}- the peace of the sleep of the dead. 




SONNET. 




HILD of my heart ! Ideal of my dreams ! 
Thou pattern of all gentleness and love ! 
j\Iy heart flies to thee, as the pining dove 
Flies to its mate ; and when life busiest seems, 
And the hot brain, o'ertasked with thickening schemes, 
Reels with perplexities, one thought of thee, 
One blessed thought, that thou dost keep for me 
Thy heart's choice treasures, e'en as limpid streams 
Their cooling waters for the parching plains ; 
That in thy heart's most consecrated shrine 
I have a dwelling place, most fondly mine, 
Straightway my soul her wonted power regains, 
And Hope's bright promises upon me shine 
In the sweet consciousness that thou art wholly mine. 



THE FOUNTAIN IN THE WILDERNESS. 



O Fons niatidusice! splendidwv z///ro.— Horat. 




N this uncultivated wild, 

Where Nature's lavish hand is seen, 
The gloomy, tender, rugged, mild, 
Profusion's endless change of green. 
One charm alone could add a grace. 
Adorn, refresh, sustain and bless. 
And that— the beauty of the place— 
The fountain in the wilderness. 

From the cleft granite in the hill. 

Whose jutting front gnarled roots entwine, 
Through fissures numberless distill 

Thy waters, Fountain of the Pine ! 
What skill hath wrought thy urn of white. 

And crowned its rim with flowers, whose hue 
Is varied as the rainbow's light, 

'^- _^^,g And as the rainbow, transient, too. 



Calm, placid fountain ! who can gaze 

In thy clear waters, and behold 
The mid-day sun's untarnished rays 

Reflected back in hues of gold. 
And not rejoice that heavenly worth. 

Though found in plain and humble guise, 
May send its brilliancy from earth 

In heightened splendor to the skies. 



THE FOUNTAIN IN THE WILDERNESS. 

How pure, how lucent, how serene, 

Thy ceaseless waters leap to light, 
Like crystal in the sunlight seen, 

Whose brightness dazzles on the sight. 
Thou prototype of purity ! 

Of peace th' example 'mid unrest, 
O, teach me what the heart may be 

By virtue, love and peace possess'd. 

In ages past, ere yet the East 

Had heard of our far western world ; 
Ere kingdoms rose, that since have ceased, 

And empires — since in ruin hurled; 
Calmly thy waters welled to view. 

And glided through their pebbled way. 
Reflecting heaven's unfading blue 

As clear and truly as to-da}'. 

The antlered deer and timid doe 

Came hither in the olden da)\s, 
And on th}- even face below 

Delighted much and long to gaze ; 
And of thy limpid waters quaff' d. 

While fawns in transports bounded by. 
Safe from the quick, invidious shaft. 

And the red huntsman's searching eye. 

Here, too, the tawny lovers came. 

And wooed in accents now imknown, 
When the round moon — a shield of flame - 

In summer's milder evenings shone. 
What raptures, what delights of love, 

Melted and thrilled the savage breast, 
When lips, that torture could not move. 

Faltered with vows half unexpressed. 



THE FOUNTAIN IN THE WILDERNESS. • I23 

The music of thy flow, how sweet 

To their untuned, untutored ears, 
While they, in turn, the tale repeat 

Of cherished hopes and vanished fears. 
Th\' ripple low, the winds above. 

The swaying boughs, the sighing streams, 
Repeat the story of their love, 

Till love in every murmur seems. 

I see him now ! the warrior chief, 

Proud, haughty, stern, the fearless foe. 
Whose vengeance is a kept belief. 

Whose rage, no momentary glow — 
Retreating from the hard-fought field. 

Defiance flashing from his eye. 
Though vanquished, yet untaught to yield, 

Though conquered, yet disdains to fly : 

I see him, thirst}', bleeding, haste 

To thee, O Fountain of the Pine ! 
(How sweet thy cooling balm to taste, 

And on th}^ flowery verge recline : ) 
He kneels ! he drinks ! O blessed fount ! 

How quick to cool heat's raging flame, 
T' allay, to soothe, if not surmount, 

The pangs that rack his quivering frame. 

No more revenge, like poison, burns. 

Nor rage, nor hatred fires his breast ; 
To heaven his e3-e undaunted turns. 

And to his brow his hand is press' d. 
His heart is with his thoughts, and they — 

Unchanged in death as fixed through life — 
Are with his children now at pla^-, 

And her, his dark-eyed Indian wife. 



124 THE FOUNTAIN IN THE WILDERNESS. 

These scenes have passed : no more beside 

Th}' pleasant waters shall they meet, 
The tawny lover and his bride, 

To woo and wed in accents sweet ; 
No more the huntsman's shaft shall pierce 

The antlered deer and timid doe, 
Nor hostile chiefs, in conflict fierce. 

Shout triumph o'er a prostrate foe. 

Perished a race that well deserved 

A better fate, a lasting name ; 
No record of those deeds preserved. 

That well were worth eternal fame : 
To them no tribute do we pa}- — 

Those heroes of the olden days! 
Except such sympathy as maj^ 

Adorn a poet's idle lays. 

But thou, O fountain! — tranquil fount! 

Hast seen them: would thou hadst a tongue, 
Their perished hist'ry to recount. 

What tales they told, what heroes sung. 

Canst thou the secret not disclose? 

\'ain babbler ! what to thee were they ? 
Or what am I who now propose 
Such questions .-^ canst thou tell me? sav 



O Fountain in the Wilderness ! 

Henceforth let others learn from thee: 
Not all we see should we confess, 

Nor all confess that others see. 
To harbor peace within the breast. 

To draw from all their sweetest grace ; 
Like thee, be calm amid unrest, 

And wear, like thee, a pleasant face. 




^fe-.:. 




THE UNRETURNING. 

IpRING comes again in beauty \into earth, 
In all lier recesses of light and shade, 
The joy of sunshine and the mellow rain. 
E'en querulous Age, leaning upon his staft", 
Peers from dim eyes to welcome her return. 
And wrinkles his lean features into smiles ; 
And lusty youth, with song and madrigal. 
Goes forth to meet her in the budding groves, 
And with rejoicings, follows where her steps 
Awake the slumbering beauty of the flowers. 
No more, O! never more, will her return 
Bring back the joys of recollected days, 
Though, sitting on the sun-crowned hill, she sing 
" Rejoice, rejoice, O Love, rejoice with me ! 
Rejoice and come with me, for now the fir 
Drops balsam, and the tender leaf appears. 
The sweet voung corn puts out its tin\- blade. 
The elm its buds, and every vine its green ; 
Rejoice and come with me : the coppice yields 
The balm of waxen calyx .swol'n with life, 
And all the dells are fiery with the rose. 
And all the meres with cow^slips turn to gold. 
"Rejoice, rejoice, O Love, rejoice with me!" 
No more th' accustomed haunt, the populous grove. 
Full of young life and old decay, where glint 
Innumerable wings through interlacing boughs. 
Shall he revisit for whom love now mourns. 
Sitting with folded wings beside his grave ; 
Who waned in dawning, like a morning star, 
In the full flu.sli of the unclouded dav. 



AS I LOVE. 




O you love as I love? 

Do \'0U cherish the flame 
That trembles to brightness 
At thought of her name? 
Is it secret, confiding, 
Unshaken, abiding, 
All frailties hiding? 
Then you love as I love. 

Do you love as I love? 

Do your thoughts ever run, 
lyike rivers to ocean, 

To center in one? 
Is it constant, concealing 
In words, not in feeling, 
But in blushes revealin.Q ■^ 

Then 30U love as I lo've^^ 





MORNING ON MARYLAND RIGHTS. 

[1862.] 

ITAR of the ros\' dawn, iipon thy face 
The shepherds of Chaklea turned their eyes, 
As o'er the windy hills their flocks they led, 
And glimmering up the misty steeps of night 
The faint dawn trembled, till the luminous air 

Took to itself th}- glor\-, and afar 

On crest and cliff and solemn pinnacle 

Burned the full splendor of the risen morn. 

Their eyes behold thee not, but still tin' path 

Thou hold'st in heaven, and still thy I10I3' beams 

Shine on the faces and the homes of men. 

They came and worshipped thee, and passed away — 

Before them thou, and thou when they were not. 

The fire-eyed eagle, clasping with lean claws 
The wint'ry crag that earliest takes the sun, 
Ere 3'et the rounded world swings full to thee. 
Or the white morning's glistening sandals track 
The mountain slopes, lifts his imperial wing. 
And, through the infinite blue, a lessening form 
Goes forth to meet thee on thy rosy wa)-. 
The old woods and the ancient .solitudes 
Thy influence feel ; and when with gracious light 
Thou fillest the hazy spaces of the East, 
The brooding- spirit of the Almighty moves 
The billow}- depths of ocean and of air, 
And the majestic wilderness rolls back 
The sounding anthem of the chanting sea. 



128 MORNING ON MARYLAND HIGHTS. 

How like a spirit of light thou springest up, 
Leading the archer with his silver bow 
And quiver of night-scattering arrows, o'er 
These rugged hights, whose everlasting fronts 
Stand sentinel to the pathways of the world. 
Or whether named of him, (as poets feign ) 
The charmed astronomer who nighth- viewed 
The circling heavens from Atlas ; nor had ceased 
Till now his patient vigils on that lonely mount, 
But b}' an horrid tempest seized, was whirled 
Through howling darkness to the void :— or called 
Of that fair boy the sea-born beauty wooed 
With kisses and entreaties in the groves 
Of famed Idalia : — thou art still the same 
Unto the redbreast that, from thickets wild, 
Singest thy coming. Neither he alone : 
The wilderness awakes, and from its depths 
The angels of the morning call to thee. 
The children of the mountain and the vale. 
The old divinities of groves and streams, 
Th' inhabitants of animate wilds, fair forms 
Of grace and beaut}-, born of heaven to dwell 
By cooling fountains and in forest glades, 
Rejoice in thee, and through the pleasant land 
Make merry morning, breathing unto thee 
The feasting sweetness of Arcadian flutes. 

II. 

Fair is thy light, and fair the tender dawn 

Thou usherest in — alas ! no more to bring 

The days when Peace went singing through the land. 

No more, O frosty Loudon, from thy hights 

Descending to the sea-green river's .shore. 

Nor yet bj- thee, watenng a fruitful vale, 

Bright Shenandoah, shall she come to dwell, 



MORNING ON MARYLAND HIGHTS. I29 

Pleas' d with the fattening herds, the prospering share, 
And the 3-oung corn with promise bourgeoning out. 
War's trumpets wake the hills, and volleying roll 
The throbbing thunders of contending guns ; 
The far-off mountains, purple-peaked or veiled 
In deeper blue than heaven, send harshly back 
Their angry echoes, roaring through the vale. 

O mother of the might}^ dead ! who hast 

In thy blind rage reversed thy glorious shield. 

Exalting over Liberty the heel 

Of the mail'd Despot, how shalt thou repent 

In tears and blood thy unexampled crime. 

No happy star leads up thy day of peace . 

But, miserable, from thy stormy skies 

Rain famine, pestilence and death, as once 

The Florentine beheld, in nether woe. 

Dilated flakes of slow-consuming marl 

Fall scorching on th' unhapp}', doom'd to fire. 

As thou that sittest in the clefted rocks. 

Once haughty village, shall her cities be. 

And o'er deserted streets and shattered walls 

Shall Desolation reign with stony eye. 

To smite her children with remorse and shame. 

Remembering how, to foul rebellion given, 

Ungodly lust of power, and pride of blood. 

They lost the priceless heritage of man — • 

The unity of liberty and law. 

But thou, fair star, that even as I gaze. 

Dost fade in light more glorious than thine own. 

Be thou the emblem of mj^ Fatherland. 

Though round these hights the bellowing tempest break, 

And from its rocky bed the whirlwind tear 

The sinewy oak and twist the pliant fir, 



T30 



MORNING ON MARYLAND HIGHTS. 



And like the gloomy smoke of battle whirl, 

From steaming gorges and surcharged ravines, 

The pluming mists, through which the lightnings leap 

A tangled flame — thou, in thy sphere serene, 

Rollest in light, obscured but never dimmed. 

Above the warring elements, and bring'st 

Da}', and the golden calm of summer skies. 

To be a sweet awakenins: to the world. 





SUMMER DAYS. 

N summer, when the day's were long, 
We walked together in the wood ; 
Our heart was light, our step was strong ; 
Sweet flutterings then were in our blood, 
^ In summer when the days were long. 

We strayed from morn till evening came ; 

We gathered flowers and wove us crowns ; 
We walked 'mid poppies red as flame. 

Or sat upon the yellow downs ; 
And always wished our lives the same. 

In summer, when the days were long. 

We leaped the hedge-row, crossed the brook ; 

And still her voice flowed forth in song, 
Or else she read some graceful book. 

In summer when the days were long. 

And then we sat beneath the trees, 

With shadows lessening in the noon ; 
And in the sunlight and the breeze 

We rested many a gorgeous June, 
While larks were singing o'er the leas. 

We loved, and yet we knew it not — 

For loving seemed like breathing then ; 

W^e found a heaven in every spot ; 
Saw angels, too, in all good men. 

And dreamed of God in grove and grot. 



SUMMER DAYS. 

In summer, when the days were long, 
Alone I wander, — muse alone — 

I see her not ; but that old song 

Under the fragrant wind is blown, 

In summer when the days are long. 

Alone I wander in the wood ; 

But one fair spirit hears my sighs 
And half I see, so glad and good, 

The honest da3'liglit of her e3-es. 
That charmed me under earlier skies. 



In summer, when the days are long, 
I love her as we loved of old ; 

My heart is light, my step is strong; 

For love brings back those hours of gold 

In summer when the daj-s are long. 




Happy is he who hath his chosen 

home 
Set in a corner of the noisy world 
Not so remote from business and the 

marts 
Wherein all commerce thrives, as to 

have lost 
Man's interest in men, nor yet so 

near 
As quite to lose remembrance of 

clear skies, 
The infinite tenderness of heaven's 

blue, 
And the fresh world that year by 

year renews 
An Eden lovely as the angels saw 
Who guarded its white gates with 

flaming swords. 



THE AVOWAL. 

F love be the devotion of a soul, 
That, with the world to choose from, yet returns 
vSlave of thy wi.sh, and prisoner at thy will. 
And bids thee bind him with th}- stronger chain, 
Then love I thee ; and lacking fitter words. 
Mine actions leave to plead my further cause. 





-^ "f<::M 








PROTEAN DUST. 

R whether on the mountain height, 
Or in the valley deep, 
It matters not, where falls the night. 
When wear}' mortals sleep 
Their final sleep. Their dust shall be 

The dust of other men, 
And mixed in Nature's alcheni}-. 

Yet walk the earth again. 
In vain the loftiest pj-ramid, 

The co.stliest cr3-pt and tomb ; 
The earth that vanit}' has hid, 
Shall add to leaf and bloom. 
The monarch's dust, perchance, shall feed 

The peasant's violet. 
The beggar's from its suffering freed, 
In royal halls be set. 







i&<^^ 



THE EARLY DEAD. 

^^HEY grow not old, the loved who perish young 
They are forever beautiful : the yeans, 
The blight of sorrow, and the waste of grief 
i^P'^^lfe*^*^ The canker of affliction and the cares 
That creep on our decrepitude, nia\' wreak 
On us their ravages, until, o'erspent, 
The weary frame drops stiffened to the dust ; 
But they who, in the blossom of their years. 
Depart in all their glory, and go down 
In the full flush of beauty to the grave, 
Can never know the slow decline of age ; 
It hath no power upon them; but, afar, 
Transplanted to the Paradise of Faith, 
And made immortal in their innocence. 
Their purity and loveliness, they bloom, 
Rare as the fruits of famed Hesperides, 
Beyond the changes and the Avrath of Time. 

They grow not old, the loved who perish young; 

Though in the valleys green where lie their forms 

At sleep among the daisies, the heaped mounds 

Sink level with the surface of the plain, 

And the white stone, the kind memorial 

Of mourning love for a departed love, 

Gathers upon its face the mold of years ; 

E'en though their resting-place the trackless winds 

May seek, but vainly ; and the plow-boy turn 

With the bright share the turf above their rest, 



138 THE EARLY DEAD. 

Unconscious, as lie sings liis roundela}^ 
Of forms than liis more fair that sleep below : 
Still, in our hearts they hold remembrance, 
And in our dreams do they revisit us ; 
And through the golden glory of the Past, 
Like pictures mellowed by the glaze of age. 
The patterns of the beauty still appear 
More precious as they seem to gather grace, 
More beautiful as we decay ; as we grow old. 
More dearly loved for memories the}- bring. 

I now bethink me of a gentle one, 
So pure she might be canonized a saint. 
Who came to us as an exceeding joy. 
Who left us in a most exceeding grief. 
She was our HI}- ; and the angels loved it. 
Who did divide with us a tender charge 
Until it budded ; and we hoped to see 
The beauty of its blossom. But, one day 
In the deep glory of a flowering Maj', 
The bright immortals from the Hills of Bliss 
Came down into the garden of our love ; 
And so did they prefer that perfect bud, 
And so enamored were they of its grace, 
And so they valued it above all others, 
That they did breathe upon it ; and our lily 
Became, henceforth, immortal in its bloom. 



A RETROSPECT 




ACKWARD o'er the past I look 
And, as written in a book, 
All my life before me lies. 
vSeal, O Heaven, its mysteries ! 
Let no eye its pages scan 

Without cliarit}' for man ; 

Let no tongue its secrets tell 

That love hath not tempered well , 

Let no judge, with mien severe. 

On my acts hold inquest here. 

Lord of Life ! thou knowest best — 

In thy mercy will I rest. 




HOME. 

O liim who is aweary of the strife, 

The disappointment after arduous toil — 

Which is ambition's frnit ; who wears the weeds 

Of rooted sorrows for his vanished hopes ; 

Whose 3'Oung desires have changed to stern resolves 

Who looks on life, as the experienced brave 

Upon the battle-field — to such, how sweet, 

How more than hol}^ is the tender light, 

Lingering like flame on a deserted shrine. 

Around the spot where Peace nursed his 3-oung soul 

In the imtroubled lap of Innocence ! 

O, if the heart can cling, amid the change, 

The wreck and desolation of all things. 

With the true fondness of a mother's love. 

To anything — of time, of form or place — 

To anything worth human adoration. 

It is to Home — the circle of all jo3-s. 

The charm of Heaven, the talisman of hearts ! 

Sweet to the seaman's eye when from afar, 

After long voyages on tempestuous seas, 

Through indistinctness visible, the hills, 

Dear to his heart b\- man 3' memories — 

The blue-crowned hills, amid whose peaceful vales 

Nestles in sunshine his parental roof, 

First o'er the waters rise upon his sight. 

Sweet to the pilgrim, long in stranger lands, 

Though it be humble as a wrecker's cot, 

The welcome outlines of his earl3' home. 



141 




The reverend patriarch — who went forth from thence 

Strong- in the manhood of untarnished hopes — 

Beholds with fondness and a child's delight, 

The homely walls that guarded from the world 

His helplessness and his unfolding prime. 

Dear to the matron — who went forth from thence 

Crowned 'with the garlands of a virgin bride, 

Amid the mirth of rustic revelry, 

The greetings of young hearts and happ}- lips — 

Is her return to the sequestered .spot, 

When, like the roses b}- the moss-grown wall, 

She blushed to beauty 'midst its rural charms. 

Once more in childhood's home ! O, ble.st retreat ! 

As^'lum for the weary-worn of life. 

Thou refuge for the broken-hearted child, 

Restorer of lost peace to troubled breasts, 

Thou kind protector of insulted worth. 

Friend of the hapless whom the world reviles, 

The temple and the guardian of love ; 

Thou Paradise on earth, whose portals close 

Again.st the bitterness of strife and scorn. 

Against the rudeness of a selfish world, 



142 



Against unfeeling jeers and cold repulse, 

Against all that makes misery more deep, 

Or mars the happiness of virtuous joy — 

What charms like thine can bind the heart of man, 

With spells of pleasant memories and dreams, 

To hallow with the reverence of love, 

Above all other objects of desire, 

The altar of the household of his youth ? 





ELLULA. 

lOSY, cheerful, happy child 
I Was EUula of the wild ! 
Raised where naught but forests are 
1 By a hardy forester. 
All unknown to other eyes 
Than the stars that gem the skies ; 
Nightingale of Northern bowers, 
Queen and sister to the flowers ; 
Nimble, timid as a fawn, 
Lightly leaping o'er a lawn ; 
Cheeks as ruddy as the dawn ; 
Parian brow, where curls of gold 
Wavy, wanton, richly rolled; 
Eyes as blue as skies above, 
Liquid, lucent, lurking love ; 
Heart of charity, and tongue 
Never speaking others' wrong ; 
Voice whose every note was song- 
Such was my EUula, when 
Sober Autumn came again,— 
Like a hermit penance keeping. 
O'er his sins forever weeping- 
Then with birds my darling flew 
To a fairer climate too. 

How much beauty, how much worth 
Death hath taken from our earth ! 
What a gift to us was given ! 
What a gift returned to Heaven ! 



144 



Like a star in light expiring, 
At the .sun's approach retiring, 
Leaving us her name to bless, 
Leaving earth an angel less. 
Giving Heaven an angel more — 
Better never passed before, 
Either martyr, saint or maiden 
With the balm for sorrow laden, 
Through the blissful gates of Aidenn. 

Sweet Ellula, blest Ellula, 

To the spring-perennial Beulah, 

To the realm of love and song, 

Where was never thought a wrong, 

Thou art gone. — Yet, though so dear, 

I would never wish thee here, 

Never — though the wish were love — 

Wish thee from thy bliss above. 

I shall greet thee — not with fear : 

I shall meet thee — but not here — 

Greet thee — where no cares can thwart us 

Meet thee — where no foes can part us. 

I shall come with joy to thee : 

Thou, in sorrow, ne'er to me. 

Till that hour, my life will be 

All a dream of Heaven and thee« 



THE FLOWER ANGELS. 



PON the seven-hued iris sits the queen 
Of dews, the diamonds that the tearful naiads bear, 
In elfin urns, to jewel all the flowers: 
The crimped petals of the tinted buds 
They, leaf by leaf unfold, and bend the rays 
Of the rich sunlight on their tiny heads, 
And with their delicate wings fan the fresh air 
On the unconscious beauties, as a mother bends 
And breathes upon the features of her sleeping child. 






o, 



WAITING TO DIE. 

ONELY the hearthstone, 

Silent the halls, 
Faded the pictures 

Hung- on the walls. 
Rusty the door-hinge, 
Pathways grass-grown — 
it is weary 
Dwelling- alone I 




Sadly he goeth — 
Thus do they say- 
Locks, once an auburn. 
Silvered and gray ; 
Feebly he's leaning 
Now on his cane. 
Wrinkled with sorrows, 
Bending with pain. 



Heavily stepping, 
vStiffened with years. 
Sightless his dark eyes, 
Deafened his ears, 
Slowly he moveth — 
Let him pass by ! 
Pity an old man 
Waiting- to die. 



-^>x--'. 



.mmm.^^^ 

















5fr,v__. ^ 




THE LOVED ONES AFAR. 

[song.] 

I. 

HEN night winds are wailing, 

Like spirits in thrall, 
And death walks in darkness 
Through hamlet and hall ; 
Kind Angels of Mercy, 
Wherever they are, 
Watch over the slumbers 
Of loved ones afar — 
Our heart's dearest treasures, 
The loved ones afar. 

II. 

Where'er they may wander, 

O'er land or o'er sea. 
Thou, Father of Angels, 

We trust them with thee ! 
Be Thou to earth's pilgrims 

The day-beam and star. 
The staff of the weary 

To loved ones afar. 



III. 



While life hath a pleasure, 
Or hope hath a cheer ; 

While the heart can feel kindness. 
Or sorrow a tear ; 



^5° THE LOVED ONES AFAR. 

I can not forget them, 
Nor fail in the prayer, 

That God will watch over 
The loved ones afar. 

IV. 

The winter of life-time 

May close round in gloom, 
And spring flowers may scatter 

Their leaves o'er my tomb; 
Yet still, through the darkness, 

Like evening's pale star. 
My spirit will hover 

O'er loved ones afar — 
Our heart's dearest treasures, 

The loved ones afar. 



OCTOBER. 

jIAZING o'er the wasted lands, 
Fallow fields and frosted sands, 
^iJ Brown October sadly stands 
Ankle-deep in leaves that strew 
Wood-land walks and valleys low. 




THE UNSEALED FUTURE. 




URN not from us, Immortal, thy 

calm face, 
Nor in dull ears receive our 

fervent prayer. 
With clear, cold eyes the years 
to come thou seest, 
The secrets that they hold, and all our fates. 
Unseal thy lips, fixed as the Phidian Jove's, 
Or with thy bloodless finger to our eyes 
Trace the eternal will, the stern decree. 
That makes or mars our lives that are to be. 
Say to what end we live, that knowing this 
We may conform the order of our lives, 
Nor blindly work the folly of our wills. 



SONG OF PARTING. 




HILE the sad lioiir is flying-. 

How dear the spot appears, 
Where love, with flowers undying, 

Crowned all our happy years. 
Companion dear, forgive the tear 

That falls o'er pleasures wasting: 
Earth has no cheer when thou'rt not near. 

Nor life a bliss worth tasting. 

Could fond desire detain thee 

Or Love the moments stay, 
Affection still would chain thee, 

And Time his flight dela^-. 
Ah, go not yet — each sad regret 

But chides the thought of starting : 
Too soon, alas ! the moments pass 

That bring the hour of parting. 



Oh, wh}- should time deceive us. 
Or joys fly with the years? 
Like April smiles they leave us. 

And melt awa}^ in tears. 
Companion, sta^^ — too soon the day 

When ties of love we sever ; 
And still too few the friendships true 
Where hearts are linked forever. 



mo NONO. 




Feb. 7, i8 



T Was in Sinigaglia, alt, a shrine 
\ /An aged iwoman knelt, and bow'd her head; 
^^h her fjfce a,80TTo^ half divine ; 
iNtJnto h«d;j^ki©i^hb,^r6r son owing she said, 
' Itl tnonrtiftil accents 'the good Pope is dead!" 

riHiii shlOtecancd his gentle wa3-s and face, 
\^ When \])pi in iHttfiJble priest his flock he fed 
_«=r,^. _,^ ... .i=^.^^ jjjj^i exceeding grace, 

And tears fell fast as tenderly 

she said 
To sobbing kindred, "the good 

Pope is dead !" 

What he had done for comfort of 

the poor. 
The widow and the orphan, 

and to spread 
The joy of heaven 1}- love from 

door to door, 
This she remembered as, with 

reverend head 
She still repeated, "the good 

Pope is dead ! ' ' 

A.long the bay the winter sun 

shone bright. 
And o'er the crisp cool waters 

gayly sped 
The lateen sails, like wings of 

life and light 
While fervently with heaven 

her sad voice i)lead 
For saintly glor}^ for the good 

Pope dead. 



154 



I'lO NONO. 



Above her rose the vast Cathedral's dome ; 
From niche and vault shone man}' a sculptured head 

Of saints who toiled to build a mightier Rome 
Than Caesar knew; unheeding then she said, 
Filled with his presence, "the good Pope is dead!" 

So shall all people sa}-, forgetting strife. 

As o'er the world the mournful tidings spread, 

How well he walked the thorn}- wa3-s of life 
And o'er the darkest paths the sweetness shed 
Of love and gentleness — "the good Pope is dead." 




FOR HIS MERCY ENDURETH FOREVER. 




ORD, in the \\ildeniess are 

many wa}s 
For doubtful feet, and which 

the right to take 
How ma}' we tell, not seeing 

the end thereof? 
But this we know, and this 
our comfort is, 
Whether In fault or weakness of the will 
Oui feet the evil choose, Th}- love will 

follow. 
Nor lea\ e us m the darkness quite alone ; 
That some tmie in the awful silences. 
Our ear shall hear its wooing whisperings. 
And we our wayward footsteps turn to Thee. 



^V\^ 



